


it's alright, calling out for somebody to hold tonight

by shoulderbladesarewings



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-08 19:00:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5509463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoulderbladesarewings/pseuds/shoulderbladesarewings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Living in a seaside town with a starving artist and spending most of your time in a fish-and-chip shop sounds like a quieter life than it actually is. Especially when a curly-haired boy with a smart mouth shows up out of nowhere - and brings twenty stray cats with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i want to hear the humming of the sun, or that of my heart hardening

**Author's Note:**

> sooo i've been playing around with this idea for ages and it probably sounded better in my head but i wanted to write it down anyway. hope you like it!

‘Do you think I should dye my hair blue?’

   Zayn shrugs, absorbed in his work. ‘It’s your hair.’

   ‘Wrong answer,’ Louis states firmly. ‘As my best friend, you’re supposed to give me a comprehensive list of reasons why making a massive change to any part of your body – eg tattoos, piercings and hair dye – is not a decision to make immediately post-break-up. Come on, Malik, look alive!’

   ‘It’s not _immediately_ post-break-up,’ Zayn replies calmly, still not looking up. ‘It’s been three weeks and you didn’t like him that much anyway.’

   ‘That’s not the point,’ Louis protested. ‘The nature of it was positively traumatising. He told me I wasn’t _submissive_ enough.’

   ‘Which I would have thought you’d take as a compliment.’

   ‘The implication being that the only reason anyone would want me is because I look like a sub.’

   ‘You did let him put you in handcuffs.’

   ‘I _like_ handcuffs. I don’t like spanking. This arse is a national treasure –’

   ‘Steady on.’

   ‘– and should be treated as such.’

   ‘Alright, alright. Sit still, I’m almost done. And you’d look nice with blue hair. If you’d said you were gonna get a dick piercing I would have been more concerned.’

   ‘I’m gonna get a dick piercing.’

   ‘No you’re not.’

   Louis huffs. Zayn knows him – specifically, his phobia of pain – far too well.

   Zayn slots the last stone into place, then breathes out with a small, satisfied smile. ‘Finished.’

   Louis darts over to look, and claps Zayn on the shoulder so hard he nearly fall face first into his piece. ‘You’ve outdone yourself, mate. Almost as gorgeous as the real thing.’

   They both know, of course, that Zayn’s portrait of Louis, made entirely out of the tiny sharp stones he picks up every day at the beach (painstakingly glued onto the kitchen tiles he rips up out of the floor individually whenever he starts a new project), is far more beautiful than Louis could ever hope to be himself.

   But Zayn plays along because, despite appearances, humouring Louis is a particular talent of his. ‘Well I could never _hope_ to match that.’

   Louis gently runs his hand over the surface of the piece, so the stones leave shallow pink scratches on his palm. He’ll never get over how amazing Zayn is. Everything he touches just turns to gold. He literally just started messing around with this stones concept about six months ago, when the two of them first moved down to Brighton to start Adult LifeTM, and he’s already pretty much perfected it.

(the stones concept, not Adult Life. In that area, at least, he’s just as out of his depth as Louis)

   Zayn reverently places his latest work beside the three other pieces he’s completed in the last month: depictions of a rose, the sea, and a golden Labrador. He’s getting a proper collection going, and Louis couldn’t be prouder. He doesn’t even mind that much that they practically have to play Hot Lava around the gaping holes in their kitchen floor.

   ‘So, remind me where we settled on with the blue hair?’ he asks, once again itching to be the centre of Zayn’s attention.

   Zayn smiles. ‘Your choice.’

   ‘And the dick piercing?’

   ‘I would disown you.’

   ‘OK, just checking.’

 

*

It was meant to be a joke to startle Zayn into protective mode, but as they saunter down the street together towards their favourite haunt, the vintage-style comic book store crammed between two charity shops like a forgotten book, Louis is seriously considering the blue hair. He’s always kind of lusted after that ‘punk’ look, and given that his pain phobia makes piercings, and tattoos larger than a couple of inches, impossible procedures, hair dye seems the way to go. He’s twenty-two, for Christ’s sake. He’s going to have to make a life-altering decision some time.

   ‘I think I’m gonna do it,’ he announces, once they’re inside the shop.

   Zayn just nods vaguely, before half-running over to the shelf of circa-80s action figures and practically pressing his nose up against the glass.

   Louis rolls his eyes, but he’s already drifting over to the pristine first editions in their plastic cases, looking at them the same way he ogles hot boys on the street. He knows it’s pathetic, but he doesn’t care. Everyone has their own way of chasing their childhood. At least he’s not a brony.

   _‘God,’_ Zayn groans, practically drooling. ‘Look, Louis, do we really have to pay rent this month? Can’t you just suck the landlord off or something?’

   ‘Zayn, she’s a sixty-eight year old woman. You _know_ this; you’ve _met_ her.’

   He smirks. ‘That’s your only objection?’

   Louis haughtily ignores him, still fixated on the brightly-coloured comics, thick with awesome powers and twisted villains. As always, he makes the calculations in his head: if he only eats rice for three days; guiltily ignores the vacuum cleaner bag that needs to be replaced; works a few extra shifts at the bar…

   He sighs, and gives Zayn’s sleeve a tug. ‘Come on, let’s go. No point pretending we’re not both broke.’

   Zayn stares dejectedly into the glass case. ‘Perrie says I could make a lot of money as a cam boy.’

Louis pats his shoulder sympathetically. ‘Darling, Perrie has been trying to get into your pants since uni. You’re way too introverted to do porn. Come on, let’s go get food. I promise that if some random guy in a limo propositions me, I’ll take it and we’ll split the proceeds.’

   Zayn finally looks up long enough to meet his eye. ‘Promise?’

   ‘Promise,’ Louis repeats, and then, reluctantly, they leave.

   It’s about a ten-minute walk to the fish and chip shop they frequent two or three times a week, where everything is cheap and saturated in salt – and, more importantly, where their friend Niall works and gives them an under-the-table discount in exchange for them hanging around to liven up his shift. Louis’s work at the bar doesn’t start until late and Zayn’s currently self-employed selling sketches at the Saturday market, so they don’t mind. They like Niall, for his bright, crude humour and the ridiculous plaid hat he wears that makes him look like an Irish farmer from the fifties. Louis’s pretty sure he’s a hermit: he can’t even find him on Facebook, and he’s been known to disappear for days at a time with nothing but a backpack, returning with an extra handful of freckles on his face, and peeling skin on the backs of his browned hands.

   Louis wishes he was brave enough to do that. Just take off and wander around the wilderness for a few weeks here and there.

   But he’s pretty sure the wilderness doesn’t get signal, and no way could he live without his phone.

 

*

‘Zayn! Louis! My favourite customers!’

   Louis reaches across the counter to hug Niall, ignoring the protests from the people who were in front of them. ‘Got our usual table reserved, babes?’

   Niall happily indicates the table close to the counter and Louis gives him a quick kiss on the mouth before he and Zayn take their seats.

   Normally the waitress, Eleanor, brings them their food, but today when Louis looks up as their cardboard boxes of batter and grease are set before them, he sees something entirely different, and it makes his breath catch in his throat.

   The boy is tall, but somehow tiny, swimming in a grey sweater and a green silk headband that barely holds back his crown of curly hair.

   Those are the first things Louis notices and then he has to blink because…is he wearing lipgloss?

   Self-consciously, as if seeing where his eyes are, the boy presses his lips briefly together and shoots him a small, defensive scowl.

   His eyes are like emeralds.

   Niall bobs up out of nowhere, clapping his hand down on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Lads, this is Harry. He’s my new roommate so he’s helping me out here too. He’s got some awesome ideas, actually.’

   The boy – Harry – blushes a little. In fact it’s quite a pretty shade of pink. Just a little lighter than his lipgloss.

   _Lipgloss._

   ‘Haz,’ Niall continues. ‘This is Louis, and Zayn. If you get bored – can’t imagine why you would, the bants we have here – this is the break table.’

   ‘Where’s Eleanor?’ Louis asks.

   Niall shrugs. ‘Ran off with her boyfriend’s brother, I think.’

   ‘Oh.’ Defiantly, Louis spears a chip with his wooden fork. ‘I liked her.’

   Niall and Zayn are starting to give him weird looks. Harry’s still scowling, and then he speaks and his voice is startlingly deep, like summer thunder. ‘Well you’re stuck with me now.’

Louis ignores him, reaches for the saltshaker – but to his astonishment Harry grabs it first, slipping it into his pocket. ‘I think you’re salty enough already, love.’

   Louis just gapes at him. Zayn’s ignoring them all, waist-deep in some pretentious art magazine.

   Niall shifts uncomfortably. ‘Er, Haz, you know we’ve talked about being rude to customers.’

   ‘Whatever,’ he mutters, and then he drifts back behind the counter. Louis can’t help noticing that under the sweater his skinny jeans are women’s fitted. And they look fucking phenomenal on him.

   Flat arse though.

   ‘Sorry about that, mate,’ Niall says, producing another saltshaker from the empty opposite table. ‘He’s got a bit of history. Not great with people. Put a kitten or a baby in front of him, he’s fine but…well, I’m working on it. You don’t mind if he hangs around with us, do you? I know he’s not really forthcoming –’

   ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Zayn replies calmly, turning a page and slotting another chip into his mouth. ‘He seems like a sweet kid.’

   ‘Did you hear what he said to me?’

   He smirks. ‘He did have a point.’

   Niall snorts.

   Louis glares at them both, then tosses his head.

   As he does so, he catches another glimpse of Harry.

   He’s standing at the cash register, taking the order of some woman with three kids in tow. She’s lifted the youngest one up to sit on the counter and Harry’s face breaks open with joy as the baby reaches out its chubby fists towards him.

   And suddenly the lipgloss seems a lot less threatening than the fact that his smile makes Louis think of bluebirds and glitter and silver bells; of love at first sight.

 

*

Speaking of love, at eight o’clock exactly, Zayn throws his fork at Niall’s head and yells, the most animated he’s been all day, ‘Channel 6!’

   ‘Alright, alright!’ Niall bellows back, scrambling for the remote. Louis was kind of enjoying the re-run of last night’s football match, but no one begrudges Zayn his evening fluff piece on the local news. Louis watches fondly as he rests his chin on his cupped hands and gazes up at the tiny television perched on a rickety shelf.

   And sure enough, within seconds, the weathergirl cuts to Liam Payne, holding a microphone in one hand and a butterfly-shaped cupcake in the other, a massive crinkly smile stretching out his face.

   Zayn literally melts all over the table, letting out a groan. _‘Why_ is he so gorgeous?’

   Niall and Louis raise their eyebrows at each other in fond exasperation. Neither of them can quite understand Zayn’s intense, decidedly parasocial crush on this man, who wears a rainbow array of button downs and does reports on tourist attractions and the rising stray cat population. All they know is that Niall turned over to this channel one day, and Zayn was instantly hooked.

   He watches now, rapturous, as Liam takes a bite from the cupcake and then proceeds to pour praise all over the delighted elderly baker before turning back to the camera and saying ‘As can be seen, these delicious cakes certainly deserve the hype they’ve been generating.’

   The camera pans to a queue of eight people.

   Which, admittedly, for this tiny seaside town, is quite impressive.

   ‘They aren’t great cupcakes,’ a deep voice suddenly says, making Louis nearly jump out of his skin.

   He turns around to see Harry standing two centimetres away from him, just before he leans practically across Louis’s lap to wipe their table. Louis gets a hint of his scent and wilfully ignores the fact that underneath the fish and vinegar tang, Harry smells like apples and milk, and something else that makes Louis’s nose tingle a little. ‘Do you mind?’ he bites out instead.

   Harry glances back at him, his expression blank. ‘Is this how you charm all the pretty boys?’

   ‘Oh, he doesn’t need to,’ Niall calls over. ‘The pretty boys _flock_ to him.’

   Then he cackles, which Louis doesn’t appreciate. Dry spells are perfectly natural, thank you very much. Besides, it’s only been three weeks.

   That reminds him. ‘Oi, Niall! Think I should dye my hair blue?’

   ‘Your life, mate!’ his voice comes roaring back from the kitchen.

   Harry turns to look at him again, and this time it’s more than a glance. Their eyes lock and Louis feels a weird spark take hold, like a welding iron. Even the lipgloss is starting to look almost normal. Nice, even. It suits him.

   ‘I like mermaids,’ he says simply. ‘You’d look like a mermaid.’ Pause. ‘Maybe I’d like you more.’

   Abruptly fed up with this freaky kid, Louis stands up. ‘Come on Zayn, let’s go. I want to get in a nap before my shift.’

   ‘It’s not finished,’ Zayn protests.

   ‘He’s eating a flipping cupcake, it’s hardly the royal wedding.’

   ‘He’s on to the biscuits now.’

   Why is Louis surrounded by weirdos? A nomad, an obsessive fangirl, and now a…whatever Harry is. ‘Well I’m going.’

   But before he does, he picks up the saltshaker and gives it a quick hard shake, all over Harry’s curls. Disappointingly, barely anything comes out. Still, the message comes across fine, and Harry certainly looks indignant enough in the brief flash Louis gets of his face before he turns on his heel and exits.


	2. i think i've had enough, i might get a little drunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cats like fish. Harry likes Cosmopolitans. Niall is the new face of post-modern comedy. And virgins are off the table.

The next time Zayn and Louis go back to the fish and chip shop (a grand total of two days later), Louis is probably not as surprised as he should be to find it crawling with cats.

   ‘I take it this was your charming new addition’s doing?’ he calls, trying not to trip over two kittens who are playfully pawing at each other in the middle of the floor.

   ‘Isn’t it legend?’ Niall yells happily, expertly counting out change for a harried-looking man. ‘Harry says we should be doing more to help the community!’

   ‘You’re a fish and chip shop.’

   ‘Cats like fish,’ Harry points out, his head popping up from under the ice cream buckets. He’s holding a cone with three multi-coloured scoops precariously balanced on it, which he hands down to a little blonde girl chewing at her thumb. ‘Don’t they, Mindy?’

   She nods solemnly, the look she aims at Louis almost judgemental. ‘Cats do like fish.’

   ‘I know cats like fish,’ he says, trying not to sound too steely given that he’s addressing a person of the smaller and more vulnerable variety.

   Come to think of it, Harry could probably be counted in that category too. But that doesn’t stop Louis from shooting him a glare because that seems to be the established dynamic, and Louis Tomlinson is not one to stray from the straight and narrow.

   (not the narrow, anyway)

   The little girl skips off, leaving Louis to realise that Harry is staring at him. Confrontationally. ‘What?’

   ‘Nothing,’ Harry says mildly. ‘Do you want some ice cream?’

   ‘You don’t think I’m sweet enough already?’ Louis retorts sarcastically.

   Harry’s lip quirks up slightly. Louis notes that his headband is orange and white today, although the rest of his outfit is identical to when they first met. It looks good on him, makes his skin shine. ‘I think you could probably use a little more sugar.’

   ‘Can you two stop flirting?’ Zayn drawls, kicking Louis in the ankle.

   ‘Do _you_ want some ice cream?’ Harry asks innocuously.

   ‘No,’ he says tightly. ‘I _want –’_

   And then he sneezes, hugely.

   ‘You alright, mate?’ Louis asks.

   ‘I’m allergic to _fucking_ cats,’ he says thickly. ‘So someone needs to’ – another sneeze – ‘get me some’ – sneeze – ‘medication, pronto.’

   ‘Here you go,’ Harry says, reaching into his pocket and puling out a little white packet of pills.

   ‘You just carry that around, do you?’ Louis asks as Zayn races to get it, as undignified as Louis’s ever seen him, with his sleeve pressed to his nose and tears streaming from his eyes.

   Harry shrugs. ‘I tend to smell of cat. And it’s a common allergy.’

   ‘People probably pretend to be allergic just to get away from you.’

   He smiles easily. ‘I’m sure. I’ll go get your ice cream. It’s free today, to celebrate us adopting the cats. What’s your poison?’

   Louis rolls his eyes. But he’s never passed up an opportunity to give his sweet tooth a hit. ‘Chocolate. Zayn likes strawberry.’

   ‘Sexy,’ Harry comments mildly, and Louis really hopes he’s not blushing. ‘Coming right up.’

   Louis checks out his arse again as he walks away.

   Still flat.

   ‘Styles,’ he calls, because no way is Harry getting the last word. ‘Ever thought about doing some squats?’

   Harry ducks behind the counter, then turns, resting his hands on the stainless steel surface, still smiling. ‘You want sprinkles on that?’

   Zayn sneezes balefully, tugging Louis’s sleeve. ‘You’re being disgusting,’ he hisses in Louis’s ear. ‘Niall told me he’s only nineteen.’

   ‘Fuck off, I’m not flirting with him,’ Louis snaps.

   ‘Are so.’

   ‘Are so,’ a little voice reiterates, and when Louis turns, Mindy is standing there with a cat in her arms and ice cream around her mouth, an even more judgemental look in her eyes.

   ‘How do you even know what flirting is?’ Louis retorts childishly.

   She gives him a look that he swears he could describe as pitying, then wanders away.

   Louis glares at Zayn. ‘Listen, I am _not_ flirting –’

   ‘Here you go.’

   Louis jumps a mile. Harry seems to have that effect on him a lot. And his heart doesn’t stop its irregular, two-step beating even long after Harry’s retreated into the kitchen.

   ‘Nineteen,’ Zayn repeats under his breath.

   ‘Fuck _off.’_

 

*

Louis does not invite them to his bar when he leaves for his shift, but they all tag along anyway. He can’t imagine why they’d want to – it’s a gay nightclub, full of strobe lights and expensive sugary drinks, while Niall is a pint-of-bitter man and Zayn just likes to do shots in the sitting room while watching a shitty movie and smoking a blunt. But it’s Harry who suggests it, despite Louis’s sour insistence that he can manage fine without him, and Niall seems very keen to protect him, although from what, Louis has no idea and no intention of finding out.

   Zayn comes to, in his words ‘cock-block’, and save Louis from the trouble of sleeping with a nineteen-year-old.

   ‘For fuck’s sake,’ Louis hisses when Zayn explains this to him. ‘I’m sodding twenty-two, it’s hardly cradle-snatching. And it’s a moot point because I wouldn’t sleep with him in a million years.’

   Well, he thinks privately. Maybe a hundred.

   Fifty, if push came to shove.

   And strobe lighting does suit the curly-haired boy, bringing out a silver sheen in his eyes. As soon as they step inside he sheds his sweater – expertly holding the bandana in place – revealing a slightly too-small T-shirt with _Always be yourself. Unless you can be a unicorn. Then always be a unicorn_ written on it.

   Louis shakes his head to himself. He’s literally like something out of a fucking cartoon.

As Louis heads off to change into his uniform, Zayn grabs his arm. ‘Hey. Should I warn him about the suspenders or do you want him to be surprised.’

   ‘I couldn’t care less,’ Louis says haughtily, but he can already feel the blush spreading all over his face. _Why_ did he agree to this? Harry’s never going to let him hear the end of it.

   Sure enough, when Louis steps out from the tiny changing room in nothing but a pair of skinny jeans and a set of suspenders over his bare chest, Harry looks at him like all his Christmases have come at once. _‘What,’_ he yells over the pounding music, making a beeline for the bar as Louis hastily hides behind it, ‘are you _wearing?’_

   Louis ignores him, nodding a greeting at a few of the other boys, wishing Harry would go after one of them instead. He doesn’t want Harry to see him shirtless. Let alone _stare_ at him, shirtless. And that’s exactly what his doing. His eyes are the size of saucers.

   ‘They make us wear it,’ he says eventually, when Harry’s been patiently standing in the same spot awaiting an answer for nearly five minutes. ‘It’s to attract customers, make them want to come back for more.’ They’re also heavily encouraged to be as graphic as possible with the cocktail shakers, but he leaves that part out. ‘Do you want a drink or are you just gonna loiter all night?’

   ‘Raspberry Cosmopolitan.’

   Louis pauses to gape at him. Lady GaGa is blaring from speakers situated directly behind his head, and he can see half a dozen guys grinding on each other, but Harry’s request is still the gayest thing he’s ever heard. ‘I’m not giving you that.’

   Harry smirks. ‘Am I sweet enough?’

   Half-irritated and half-amused, Louis pours a messy shot of vodka into a glass and pushes it at Harry. ‘Drink that.’

   He pulls a face. ‘I don’t like straight spirits.’

   ‘I’ll kiss you if you drink it.’

   He cocks an eyebrow. ‘What makes you think I want to kiss you?’

   Louis shrugs. ‘Just saying, the offer’s there. We’re not allowed to drink on the job so if you down that I’ll lick what’s left of it out of your mouth. It will make my night a little more bearable.’

   The eyebrow stays quirked. ‘You’re allowed to kiss customers?’

   ‘We’re allowed to do what we have to do to get them to buy more drinks,’ Louis says bluntly. ‘Drink the damn vodka, it’s not gonna kill you. Certainly not as fast as that sugary shit you asked for will give you diabetes.’ Experimentally, he pouts, and he’s kind of vindictively pleased at the way Harry’s pupils dilate. He _loves_ being in control. ‘Come on. You’ll like it.’

   Harry’s voice comes out lower than usual, almost as low as the bass beat thumping through Louis’s blood. ‘The vodka or kissing you?’

   ‘Both,’ Louis says, and he knows he’s playing with fire and that if Zayn sees them he’ll raise hell and that he shouldn’t be toying with Harry, especially if the way Niall treats him with kid gloves is indicative of a bad experience in his past, he knows all this but he also knows that Harry has, like, really nice lips. And Louis wasn’t lying about needing those few drops of vodka.

   So when Harry quickly pours the clear liquid down his throat, screws up his face for a few seconds, then gives Louis a butter-wouldn’t-melt smile with slightly unfocused eyes, Louis just can’t convince himself of the harm in leaning forward and giving him a quick peck on the lips. Then when Harry willingly opens his mouth, he can’t really help responding in kind, letting their tongues dance and savouring the harsh chemical taste of the vodka lingering in Harry’s mouth.

   By the time he pulls away, he feels almost drunk. And that worries him, because he shouldn’t feel drunk off of the dregs of a mouthful of vodka.

   At least no one saw them.

   A second later, he feels awful for thinking that, for letting this happen in the first place. What if it meant something to Harry? What if he wants more?

   But when Louis looks up at him again, Harry’s just calmly wiping his mouth with his forearm, frowning a little. ‘Can I have my Cosmopolitan now?’

   ‘Ask someone else,’ Louis snaps, ridiculously offended that that’s all Harry’s thinking about, probably the only reason he agreed to this in the first place, and just like that they’re back to normal.

   Whatever that is.

 

*

There are three reasons that make Louis absolutely sure, after that night at the bar, that he will never sleep with Harry Edward Styles.

  * His name is Harry Edward Styles (which he found out when Harry was three sheets to the wind, standing on a table yelling ‘I’m Harry Edward Styles and I demand another drink!’ Needless to say, thirty men fell over themselves to oblige). Was there ever a name more up its own arse? Yes, if Louis had taken his Mum’s name he’d be Louis William Darling – but he _didn’t._ Harry Edward Styles in-fucking-deed.
  * When the latest ‘hit’ by a shitty boyband began to blare over the speakers (prompting Louis to sneak a shot straight from the bottle under the counter), Harry danced over to him, grabbed his arm and shrieked in his ear ‘I _love_ this song!’ Louis gave him a daggers look, but he didn’t seem to register, and then he started dancing, flailing his arms around recklessly like a white dad at a barbeque. It was carnage.
  * He’s a virgin, which Louis knows because he whispered it into his ear when Louis was walking home with the three of them draped around him, everyone except him completely gone. His exact words were, when Louis bluntly told him that he looked absolutely fucked, _‘How can I_ look _fucked when I’ve never_ been _fucked? Stupid’._ And there’s nothing wrong with being a virgin, doesn’t make Louis think less of him or anything, but he has a rule against sleeping with virgins. His first time was so extraordinarily shitty that he has a chronic fear of making anyone else feel even a little like that. So. Virgins are off the table.



Zayn squints quizzically at the piece of paper Louis presses into his hands as he walks past him on his way to the coffee machine. ‘What’s that?’

   ‘A list of reasons why I’m never gonna sleep with Harry Edward Styles.’

   ‘He’s not royalty, you can just call him Harry.’

   ‘That’s not the _point._ I’m not sleeping with him. It’s not happening.’

   ‘Jesus Christ, Lou, I didn’t actually think you were gonna sleep with him.’ Pause, while he scans the list. ‘I do now. You’re talking yourself out of it because he likes _boybands?’_

   ‘It’s just so _gay,’_ Louis groans.

   _‘You’re_ gay.’ He reads the last item on the list, and smirks. ‘What, do you think he’ll be bad at sex?’

   ‘No,’ Louis says shortly, because he can’t be bothered to explain. Instead, he wraps his arms around Zayn’s neck in a sort of stranglehold hug, simultaneously sliding the list away from him. ‘What are you doing today, babes?’

   Zayn wriggles out of his grasp, grinning. ‘It’s Niall’s comedy night, remember?’

   ‘Oh God.’

   ‘Mmm.’

   ‘Can we get out of it?’

   Zayn taps him reprovingly. ‘He needs our support. Anyway, it might be funny.’

   ‘Zayn, Niall’s jokes all consist of ‘an Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman walked into a bar’. I don’t even know the difference between the Irish and the Scottish.’

   ‘He needs. Our. Support,’ Zayn repeats firmly, and Louis can’t help but marvel at how loyal Zayn is to the people he loves.

   Niall’s comedy routine has apparently been in the works for weeks, ever since Niall woke up one morning and decided he wanted to be a comedian. He’s well-known and liked in the town so the bar he frequents, the one where football is constantly playing on the tiny television and the bartenders don’t even know what a cosmopolitan is, agreed to give him a half-hour window to try out some material and, naturally, he invited Zayn and Louis.

   And, Louis realises, definitely Harry as well.

   Christ. He’s not sure he can handle such a concentrated dose of those green eyes. Especially now he knows what those lips feel like: soft, and a little sticky with gloss but in a nice way, which is weird because Louis always assumed that part of the reason he didn’t want to kiss girls was because most of the ones he knows wear lipstick and he’s always hated the idea of that being anywhere near his face. But when he got home last night he glanced in the mirror and realised that there were shiny smears on the edges of his mouth, and he actually thought it looked quite nice. Not least because it reminded him of Harry.

   And he needs to pull himself the fuck together pronto.

 

*

Niall is standing with his usual confident stance (and stupid hat) at the far end of the room, a makeshift spotlight (an elevated lamp) trained on him, and he hasn’t said anything for nearly two minutes. Louis is actually worried, and he can feel that Zayn is tense next to him too. concerned that he’s frozen up and he’s going to make a fool of himself.

   Then, bizarrely, Niall pulls out his phone – and instantly, the image of his Twitter page is projected on the wall above his head – and starts to dictate aloud as he types, the words appearing as well. ‘Just started the show. No one’s walked out yet. #victory’.

   There are a few giggles, one from Harry, who is sitting on Zayn’s other side.

   ‘Three laughs,’ Niall says, grinning. ‘What’s wrong with the rest of you, you shower of cunts; cat got your tongue?’

   That gets a proper roar of mirth.

   And so the show begins. It basically consists of Niall talking aloud, typing into Twitter as he does so, then documenting the reactions of the audience and insulting them if they don’t laugh right away (which inevitably gets them laughing). Weirdly, it works. At some point Niall even points out that it shouldn’t, mimicking a potential blog post about this weird performance. ‘Very… _postmodern,’_ he drawls, in a posh accent he’s obviously nicked right out of Harry’s mouth. ‘Perhaps a commentary on how the working class can make something out of nothing; humour out of silence.’

   Privately, Louis thinks it’s kind of profound. More than that, though, it’s hilarious. When Niall gets going, he starts inserting different accents and impersonations into his routine, one minute being an uptight millennial barking about the lack of intimacy on Twitter (‘in my day we had to yank down our knickers in the street to get any attention’) and the next a surprisingly poignant child (‘Daddy, other Daddy says my Tumblr follower count is pathetic, should I vague him?’) On paper it’s not the same, but coming out of Niall’s mouth, his innate grasp of the voice and body language of all his characters, it’s gold. And yet the funniest bits are just him, cussing in his cream-thick Irish accent, live-Tweeting his own show, and when it’s finished everyone stands up to applaud, while he hastily ducks out of the light and comes over to hug Harry, Zayn and Louis. ‘Think it went alright?’

   Harry’s face is pink with delight. ‘It was am _a_ zing.’

   Half an hour later, they’re all hammered, and Louis’s just realised that Harry’s somehow smuggled a kitten in under his shirt, when Zayn suddenly glances at his watch and yells ‘It’s eight o’clock!’

   Luckily, the bar staff know him and his weird obsession, and they change the channel, ignoring the grunts of protest from the other punters.

   Niall snaps his fingers as Liam’s face fills the screen and Zayn turns to custard. ‘Oh yeah, I meant to tell you. He e-mailed, says he wants to do a feature on us adopting the cats. He wants to come around next week.’

   Zayn promptly drops his mug of beer, which luckily does no more than spill over the already dank, musty carpet. ‘He _what?’_

Louis gives Niall a stern look. ‘Hey, don’t mess with him like that.’

‘No, it’s true,’ Harry pipes up mildly. ‘Said it was a really good idea, actually.’

   Zayn makes an inhuman noise, having slumped sideways to bury his head in Niall’s shoulder. ‘Oh my _God,_ oh my _God,_ oh my _God.’_

   ‘I think we broke him,’ Harry observes.

   ‘Why do you have a cat in your shirt?’ Louis asks, because now seems as good a time as any.

   Harry looks down at the small soft bulge, seeming surprised. ‘Do I?’

   ‘Oh God,’ Zayn whispers, almost frantically. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh _God.’_


	3. are you running out of breath from running through my head all night?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zayn dies his hair and destroys the kitchen floor. Harry smuggles ice cream and has a past. Zayn has an effect on both children, and Liam. Louis is too tired to deal with any of it.

It’s four o clock in the morning and Zayn is staring into the bathroom mirror in total despair. ‘I look like _shit.’_

‘That’s because it’s four in the morning and you’re looking in the bathroom mirror,’ Louis points out, through a yawn. ‘What is up with your hair?’

   Zayn looks aghast. ‘Don’t you like it?’

   Louis’s honestly not sure what to say. He’s only gone and bleached a massive streak of it blond. He looks like a badger. A beautiful badger, but still. In fact what woke Louis up was when he dropped the bottle of hair dye, which Louis now stoops sleepily to pick up. ‘It’s…different. What made you do it?’

   ‘Liam said he likes blondes once.’

   ‘For fuck’s sake,’ Louis groans. ‘It’s too early for this shit. Get back into bed.’

   Zayn ignores him, still staring into the mirror, now focusing on his heavily tattooed arms, bared in his tank top. ‘I should get a new tattoo.’

   ‘Why?’

   ‘Liam’s got this sick sleeve, all skulls and flowers and stuff.’

   ‘You’ve got skulls and flowers.’

   ‘Yeah but I drew them. He’s got, like, proper design ones.’

   ‘Zayn, you are not getting yourself a matching tattoo with a man you’ve never even met.’

   ‘Just for a conversation starter.’

   _‘No.’_ Louis takes Zayn’s arm, giving it a tug. ‘Come on, you’re going back to bed. You’ve got about fifteen hours before you see him – enough for four hours sleep. How long have you been up, anyway?’

   ‘I didn’t go to bed.’

   Louis rolls his eyes exasperatedly. ‘Fucking hell Zayn, you’ll be dead on your feet by the evening.’

   ‘Is the hair really that bad?’

   ‘It’s lovely. Now get the fuck into bed.’

   ‘Looking forward to seeing Harry again?’

   ‘Nope.’

   ‘He didn’t _mean_ for the kitten to scratch you. He said your aura’s too twitchy; it makes them uncomfortable.’

   Louis is too approximately six hours too tired for this. And Zayn bringing up the scratch reminds him that he probably needs a tetanus shot, so he’s now going to be awake for hours worrying. He’s always been a bit of a hypochondriac, even without mangy cats clawing at him.

   Goddamn Harry Styles. _‘Bed,’_ he repeats firmly.

   Zayn lets him drag him to his bedroom, and kisses his cheek at the door. ‘When are you gonna dye your hair blue?’

   Louis eyes Zayn’s own dye-job. To be honest, it’s not encouraging. ‘Some other time.’ He makes a mental note to call Niall; beg him not to make fun of Zayn’s hair when he sees it. It’ll only lead to tears. ‘Now, I’m going back to bed. No sneaking out to get a fuckboy tattoo.’

   ‘Kay,’ Zayn says, his eyelids suddenly drooping with sleep. ‘I’m really tired now, Louis.’

   ‘I know babes. Night.’

   Sure enough, even when he can hear Zayn’s soft snores through his bedroom wall, Louis can’t sleep. But he’s not thinking about tetanus, or rabies, or the three shallow scratches on the back of his hand at all. He’s thinking about green eyes, chestnut curls, skin the colour of strawberry ice cream.

   Harry Edward Styles has his foot wedged firmly in the door of Louis’s head. Louis’s not even sure if he thinks about him in a specifically sexual way, he just thinks about him, like he used to daydream about his fitter acquaintances in English class, back when he was doe-eyed and innocent and thought you could fall in love with someone’s eyes; thought you could fall in love at all.

 

*

Zayn’s unbearably skittish all day. Louis takes him out for a walk so he can burn off some stress, but they don’t get anywhere because Zayn stops in front of every shop window and squints obsessively into it, touching his hair like he’s afraid it’s going to fall out (which he is, as it turns out, insisting on going into a pharmacy and asking them how much bleach is ‘too much’). When he stops in front of a tattoo shop and starts sincerely staring at their selection of skulls, Louis gives up and drags him back to their flat where he sets him to taking one of the kitchen tiles for a new piece while he watches a few episodes of _Friends._ At first he’s relieved, because all he can hear is scraping and grinding – but after an hour of the constant noise he gets suspicious, and when he comes back into the kitchen he finds that Zayn’s managed to unglue four tiles and is working on a fifth. Louis makes him wash the windows instead, while he tries to repair a little of the damage, and fails. _Some people,_ he thinks exasperatedly, as he watches Zayn wipe soap sud hearts on the glass, _are too destructive for their own good._

   Before they finally leave for the fish and chip shop (two hours early, naturally), Louis subconsciously spends thirty minutes choosing an outfit. He eventually settles on a pair of jeans with rips in the knees (sometimes when Zayn’s nervous he likes to tear holes in things too, so most of their clothes are a little worse for the wear) and a jade-green Adidas hoodie that he absolutely does not pick because it matches Harry’s eyes. It doesn’t even match, it’s like, three shades darker.

   Both Zayn and Louis nearly have an aneurysm when they walk into the restaurant: along with the cats, it’s now full of kids, a few of whom immediately toddle over to Zayn and wrap themselves around his legs, gazing in awe at his exposed tattoos. Louis is instantly very glad his aren’t on display: the toddlers’ hands and mouths are sticky with ice cream, the reason for which becomes evident when he sees Harry surreptitiously feeding spoonfuls of it to a little boy whose unsuspecting parents have sat him on the counter while they order their food. The rest of the children are completely occupied by the cats, slipping them strips of fish and chasing them around the floor on their hands and knees. The air is thick with laughter and sugar. Louis’s never seen such a chaotic scene in his life.

   ‘That’s a lotus flower,’ Zayn’s earnestly explaining to the three year old who’s pointing quizzically at the pictures on his arm and gazing up at him like he’s a god. ‘It’s symbolic of purity and detachment.’

   ‘Draw one on me!’ the other kid hanging off him clamours, and then there’s a chorus of children surrounding the man, all begging for him to scrawl flowers on their skin. Their parents do not look happy, and Zayn’s just staring pleadingly at Louis. Neither of them have ever felt particularly comfortable around kids, but apparently they adore Zayn.

   ‘I see you’ve made friends with our newest punters,’ Niall calls from the cash register, making Louis jump. ‘Y’alright there, Zayn?’

   ‘What do they want?’ Zayn asks Louis imploringly, over the kids’ racket. ‘Do they think I have cookies in my pockets or something?’

   ‘Alright, clear the gangway!’ Harry yells, vaulting over the counter and barrelling towards the children scrabbling at Zayn, who instantly squeal with delight and scatter. ‘Everyone return to those whose loins you came from or no more ice cream!’

   It works like a charm, and within minutes they’re all obediently seated back with their families, leaving Louis, Zayn and Harry standing slightly stupidly in the middle of the floor, cats now rubbing against their legs.

   Zayn mournfully examines the ice cream fingerprints on his black jeans. ‘These cost twenty quid.’

   ‘We’ll reimburse you,’ Harry says happily. ‘We’re getting paid for the segment, _and_ we’re drawing in 50% more people than we used to, so we’re flush.’

   ‘We’re doing alright,’ Niall corrects sternly, still occupied with taking orders. He never likes talking about money. ‘Malik, what the eff have you done to your hair?’

 

*

When Liam shows up in a leather jacket, Louis has to physically hold Zayn’s arm to stop him racing back home to grab his own. _‘Relax,’_ he hisses, and then he can’t resist pushing his friend right at the reporter, almost into his arms.

   Liam instantly beams at him, holding out a hand for him to shake. He’s got a nice smile, Louis has to admit. It swallows his entire face. ‘Hi. I’m Liam.’

   Zayn doesn’t say anything. Louis thinks it’s probable that he’s bitten right through his tongue, so he takes over, prising Zayn’s hand away and sticking forth his own. ‘Hi. I’m Louis, that’s Zayn.’ _Your future husband,_ he almost adds, but doesn’t, for which he thinks he deserves a medal.

   Liam nods studiously, like he’s committing both their names and faces to memory before continuing. ‘Are you the owners?’

   Niall scoffs loudly, suddenly standing beside them. Louis can’t help looking back to see Harry taking his turn to ring up people’s food – and then does a double take at the fact that he’s shed his jumper, underneath which he’s wearing a red floral shirt. And looks pretty fucking amazing in it too.

   _‘I’m_ the owner,’ Niall’s saying authoritatively, shaking Liam’s hand. Having been on the receiving end of Niall’s grip, Louis feels sorry for him, but Liam’s still smiling valiantly. In fact, his jaw has to be aching at this point. ‘Niall Horan. That over there’s Harry, he’s our newest addition. And he doesn’t want to be on TV so keep the camera off him. Got it?’

   Louis frowns at this information, then adds it to his mental list of reasons not to sleep with Styles: possible criminal background. It would be just like Niall to harbour a fugitive. Come to think of it, Harry probably stole half the cats now prowling around at their feet.

   Liam suddenly wrinkles his nose, then sneezes, the smile slipping from his face for the first time although he hastily brings it back as he apologises. ‘Sorry about that, I’m a little allergic to cats.’

   ‘Me too!’ Zayn almost yells, making all of them jump. Blushing, he finds the anti-histamines he now carries around in his jeans and silently offers them to Liam.

   ‘Thanks mate,’ Liam says warmly, and Louis quickly snakes an arm around Zayn to take his weight in case his knees buckle. ‘So…’ He looks between Zayn and Louis a little confusedly. ‘Am I including you in the segment or…?’

   ‘You should do a segment on Zayn,’ Niall says, surprisingly. ‘He’s an artist, he has these fucking awesome pictures he does with stones, and he drew all of his tattoos.’

   ‘That’s wicked,’ Liam says, and he looks like he really thinks so. His eyes immediately scan Zayn’s arms, and when he reaches out and appreciatively traces the curve of the snake on Zayn’s bicep, Louis wonders if he should call an ambulance. ‘All of them?’

   ‘Uh huh,’ Zayn croaks. ‘I…I’ll do one on you if you like.’

   ‘I’d love that,’ Liam replies quickly. ‘Really. I would.’

   Then they’re staring at each other and Louis feels safe to let go of Zayn because he’s pretty sure that, in whatever world they’ve stepped into, he doesn’t exist, and doesn’t need to.

Liam and the cameraman who comes in shortly after film the segment in about twenty minutes, going through the usual motions: chatting to a few of the children; getting some shots of Niall and the cats while Harry hovers just out of frame; asking questions about recipes and long-term plans and altruism, and then afterwards Zayn and Liam step off to the side and have what looks like an extremely intense conversation, touching each other’s tattoos and occasionally bursting into loud laughter.

   Louis watches them out of the corner of his eye, nibbling a few chips and feeling a little left out, until Harry sidles over to him and smiles. ‘Hi.’

   ‘Hi,’ Louis replies. ‘So what’s the story, did you rob a bank?’

   ‘No,’ Harry says mildly. ‘I ran away.’ He looks over at Zayn and Liam, who are now completely lost in each other’s eyes. ‘Well, that worked out. Even with the blond hair.’

   Louis shrugs. ‘Zayn has that effect on people.’

   ‘He is pretty fit,’ Harry agrees. ‘And there’s something special about him cos the kids love him. I always say, the best judges of character are kids and animals.’

   ‘Thanks,’ Louis says sullenly.

   Harry frowns – then his face clears. ‘The cat didn’t scratch you cos he didn’t like you. You made him nervous. Your aura’s –’

   ‘Twitchy, yeah, you said.’

   ‘Doesn’t mean you’re not nice,’ Harry says quietly. One of his eyebrows raises. ‘Hey, look. Developments.’

   Louis turns his head, and sure enough, Liam’s scribbling a number into the scrap of space on Zayn’s forearm, and his smile is smaller now than it was but it somehow seems more sincere.

   ‘Wow,’ Louis murmurs.

   ‘What’s the bet they get married within a month?’

   ‘Don’t be a twat.’

   Harry lapses into silence, looking a little hurt.

   ‘Sorry,’ Louis offers, feeling bad. He wonders what Harry’s running from. ‘Fine. If they get married, I’ll dye my hair blue. That’s what you wanted, right?’

   Harry’s face breaks into a grin. ‘Brilliant. Shake on it?’

   They shake, and Louis blushes a little at how big Harry’s hand is compared to his. It makes him feel very small. But not necessarily in a bad way.

   Harry notices it too, and before he breaks free he presses their hands together, marvelling at the span of their fingers, how Louis’s fingertips barely reach his second knuckle. ‘You’re so tiny.’

   ‘Fuck off,’ Louis snaps, withdrawing his hand.

   ‘Can I have your number?’ Harry asks, seemingly unoffended.

   ‘Why?’

   He shrugs. ‘Zayn has Liam’s. You have Niall’s. Between you, you’re connected to all of us but me.’

   Louis smirks. ‘You can just say you want my number, Styles.’

   He just smiles mischievously. ‘Where’d the fun be in that?’

 

*

So Harry now has Louis’s number. And that night, at about two in the morning (Louis shouldn’t even be up, except he and Zayn got high and Zayn gabbled for three hours about Liam and then fell asleep and then Louis got the sudden urge to make pasta and then he set the water boiling and forgot about it so now he washing the singed pan and promising himself he’ll never do dope again), Harry texts him. **_Hey. You awake?_**

If Louis weren’t still a little high he probably would wait a few minutes before replying, but he is and he’s a little lonely and he can’t be bothered to play games. **_No, why?_**

**_Just wondered. If you were, it would have been nice to talk to you._ **

**_Too bad I’m not, right?_ **

**_Yeah. Too bad. So what’s up?_ **

**_Nothing, just doing the washing up._ **

**_How’s Zayn?_ **

**_Insufferable. How’s Niall?_ **

**_He’s Niall. He’s been asleep since eleven._ **

**_So how come you’re still up?_ **

**_Talking to my sister. She worries._ **

**_Older or younger?_ **

**_Older._ **

**_I have four younger ones. I do all the worrying in the family._ **

**_That’s sweet. Is that why you’re so prickly around other people?_ **

**_Shut up._ **

**_No, really. I know I kind of am too, but I know why._ **

**_Why is that then?_ **

**_None of your business._ **

**_Then it’s none of yours either._ **

**_Alright. So what’s your favourite colour?_ **

   Louis blinks at the screen. Then he just goes with it. He might as well. **_Red. You?_**

**_Blue._ **

**_They match,_** Louis observes stupidly.

   **_I guess they do._**

 ** _What’s your favourite place?_** Louis asks, because if he's in this deep he might as well keep digging.

   **_There’s this river where I’m from, and they’ve built a little bridge over it, like something out of Snow White. First place I ever kissed someone._**

**_Boy or girl?_ **

**_Girl._ **

**_You’re bi?_ **

**_Pansexual, actually. Honestly, I used to lean a lot more towards girls but now it’s about equal._** Pause. **_So what’s your favourite place?_**

 ** _The beach here,_** Louis replies truthfully. **_I think it’s beautiful. It’s why I moved down here. Zayn, too. He likes the stones. I like the sea._**

**_Dream team, huh?_ **

**_Our mates used to call us partners in crime. We used to cause havoc on campus. Glue in people’s shoes, shit like that._ **

**_Sounds fun. I didn’t go to uni._ **

**_You still could._ **

**_I know. But. People._ **

**_I get it._** He doesn’t, totally, but he’s trying to. Although it’s hard to when he’s this bloody tired. **_Listen, I think I’m gonna sleep now. But I’ll probably see you tomorrow, yeah?_**

**_Yeah. Night Lou._ **

_Lou?_ Louis thinks. But he’s too tired to question it. **_Night Haz._**

Strange, he muses, as he flops down on the kitchen sofa and closes his eyes. Harry’s kind of easy to talk to, when they’re not just sniping at each other.

   He should do something with that.


	4. you got a beautiful face but got nothing to say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Louis debate the merits of class clowns and cupcakes. Zayn makes a few more dangerous style decisions. Harry thinks he's smaller than he is. Dan Wootton exists, unfortunately.

Sure enough, Louis does see Harry the next day, when he and Zayn stop by the restaurant so the four of them can watch Liam’s report together.

   Harry’s wearing a pink and white silk scarf in his hair and a matching pink and white polka dot shirt and he looks more like a cartoon than ever – Minnie Mouse to be precise. He doesn’t look up when Louis and Zayn walk in, deep in conversation with a customer. When Louis drifts closer, picking his way through cats and kids, to make out the words, Harry’s saying earnestly ‘It’s entirely possible to communicate with cats, you know. They only meow for our benefit; they expect us to master the sound ourselves.’

   ‘You can’t be having a serious conversation about an animal that licks its own arse,’ Louis deadpans, leaning his elbows on the counter.

   Harry starts – then smiles cheekily. ‘Would have thought you’d know all about that, Tomlinson.’

   ‘Hey,’ the man Harry was talking to interjects, trying to draw his attention back. ‘This your boyfriend?’

   Harry’s smile widens. ‘He wishes.’

   Louis’s about to shoot back something smart, but the man answers first. ‘Great. Does that mean I can have your number?’

   ‘No,’ Harry says pleasantly, ‘it doesn’t. Can I take your order?’

   ‘No,’ the man shoots back, obviously humiliated, ‘you can’t.’

   He storms away, and Harry bites his lip. ‘Should I have said yes?’

   ‘Never give customers your number,’ Louis advises. ‘It only gives them ideas.’

   ‘I gave you mine,’ Harry points out.

   ‘I buy your chips, you buy my vodka. It cancels out. Speaking of which, two orders of cod. Where’s Niall?’

   ‘He’s making out with someone in the kitchen.’

   ‘He’s what?’ Louis’s never been aware of Niall having so much as a celebrity crush. He’s always assumed he was asexual. ‘Who?’

   Harry shrugs. ‘Some girl from the bar he’s doing the comedy thing in. I think her name’s Serena. Apparently she finds comedians irresistible.’

   ‘Huh,’ Louis says. ‘Good for him.’

   Harry nods over his shoulder. ‘I think Zayn might need rescuing.’

   Louis turns around to find Zayn once more being accosted by children. He’s even holding a half-asleep baby, and looking completely bewildered as to how that happened. He’s wearing a jumper today, but there’s plenty to see on the backs of his hands: he now appears to be explaining his mandala tattoo to the enraptured, tiny crowd.

   Harry pouts. ‘So unfair. Kids always love me best.’

   ‘That’s just cos you give them sugar.’

   He gives him a small smile. ‘Force of habit. I used to bring in cupcakes for my classmates in primary school so they’d be my friends.’

   ‘That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,’ Louis says bluntly.

   ‘Oh is it, Mr. humour-as-a-defence-mechanism? I bet you were the class clown.’

   ‘There’s nothing wrong with being the class clown.’

   ‘Making an idiot out of yourself for laughs is no better than plying people with cupcakes.’

   ‘Fuck off,’ Louis snaps, because Harry’s hitting way too close to home now. Then he storms off back to Zayn, who gratefully shoves the baby at him.

   Louis doesn’t mind. He likes babies, and manages to keep the little one entertained for the next ten minutes by pulling stupid faces and kissing their nose while Zayn seats himself down, clustered with children, and at their bequest begins to draw designs on napkins, which they press to their forearms while the ink’s still drying to give themselves faint temporary tattoos. Their parents watch, faces creased with uncertainty, but the gentleness of Zayn’s hands and the beams of their offspring are evidently a comfort, and after a while they relax and turn to their food.

   Niall enters the dining room at eight – Louis is disappointed to see no traces of lipsticks around his mouth or lovebites on his jaw – and calls for silence. The kids ignore him, but when Zayn shushes them they fall quiet obediently, mimicking his stunned gaze at the TV like a little army of religious followers staring into stained glass. Louis keeps his attention on the baby, not particularly interested in Liam or what he has to say about this place.

   He fades back into the world, though, when the segment ends and Liam comes in on a greenscreen picture of their place, recording his little live-action review as usual. Normally they’re innocuous and pun-filled and cute. But this one…

   _‘Mr. Horan’s establishment may seem purr-fect at first glance, but some of the customers are probably having kittens at how unhygienic it is to have multiple stray cats prowling everywhere.’_

   ‘What the _fuck?’_ Niall exclaims, and at a few parents’ admonished cries he amends to ‘What the _heck?’_

_‘Furthermore, the foundations of this concept are clearly built on kitty litter: there is no financial benefit to feeding a bunch of half-starved animals.’_

   ‘Do you think he gets paid by the pun?’ Harry says to no one in particular, probably to lighten the tension. Everyone in the building looks furious.

   _‘And, honestly, the atmosphere is really too twee for words. Kittens and ice cream and children running around unsupervised? It’s like stepping into a Roald Dahl book, and not in a good way._ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _meets_ The Twits.’

   ‘Fucking _bastard,’_ Niall fumes as the news cuts back to the weather, vigorously switching off the television. ‘I mean, effing…’

   ‘Willyhead?’ Harry suggests mildly, and the children giggle.

   Louis’s not worried about them though. Zayn looks like he’s about to cry, and within a minute he’s gently pushed the kids off his lap and is walking out of the restaurant.

 

*

Louis texts him a few times before he heads over for his shift at the club. Zayn eventually replies to the sixth one (Louis only normally starts panicking if he hasn’t responded by the tenth), saying he’s fine and everything’s fine and he’ll be fine. Louis texts back informing him that a handful of parents asked him before he left for Zayn’s number, in case he’d be interested in babysitting sometime. Zayn answered **_You’re joking._** Louis wasn’t, but by then he was already in his uniform and texting on the job was strictly prohibited. As the first creep of the night reaches across the bar to try and grope his waist, he fades out and thinks back to Harry: how weirdly sweet he looked in that polka-dot ensemble; how unaffected he seemed by Liam’s betrayal, a calming presence like cool water; what he said about the cupcakes (Louis remembers with a pang how he used to make fun of the kids in his class who did things like that, not in a cruel way exactly but still a way that makes him wish he hadn’t. He was only trying to get people to laugh with him. That was who he was. It’s the way you have to be when you’re a gay guy who still wants to play football and hang out with other boys. You have to make them see you’re an asset, not a joke yourself). He thinks how lucky anyone would be to get a cupcake from Harry Styles.

   Walking home a few hours later, his hands numb with the cold, he replies to Zayn. **_It might be a good distraction from Liam._**

   It’s gone two in the morning but Zayn shoots back instantly. **_Why would I need a distraction from Liam?_**

   That worries Louis a little bit so he picks up the pace. He’s not sure what exactly is worrying him but it’s probably that Zayn is slightly neurotic, kind of impulsive, and incredibly self-destructive, and he’s apparently still fixated on Liam even though he obviously turned out to be a massive – to paraphrase Harry – dickhead.

   He was right to worry. The minute he’s home he heads towards the bathroom door, under which is a crack of light, opens it, and finds Zayn standing at the sink, surrounded by his own hair. His head is smooth and shining, and then he turns around and Louis has to literally support himself with the door of the shower because he’s pretty sure he can’t remember Zayn having that small, silver ring in his nose.

   _‘What,’_ he chokes out eventually, ‘are you _doing?’_ He stares at the locks of hair all over the floor, and all he can think is that Zayn better bloody be planning on cleaning that up when whatever crisis they’re going to call this is over.

   Zayn shrugs helplessly. ‘He said I was twee.’

   ‘He didn’t say _you_ were twee, you twat,’ Louis almost yells. What the hell is he going to do with this boy? And he thought Harry was weird. This is beyond weird. This is borderline fucking insane. ‘Why the hell would you still be hooked on him anyway; he stabbed Niall in the back!’

   ‘I really like him!’ Zayn blinks hard, and Louis really hopes it’s because of their bare light bulb that is entirely too bright at this hour of the night. ‘We talked for ages…and he said he liked my tattoos…but he hasn’t called and it’s because I’m twee, I’m weird, I’m dorky…’

   ‘Zayn.’ Louis presses his fingers to his temples in an attempt to stop his head from exploding. Why does Zayn always do this in the small hours of the morning? If he just went to sleep at midnight like a normal person this could probably have been prevented. ‘Number one, he reports fluff pieces on the local news. He’s the definition of twee. Two, I know you remember that time he said he had Batman boxer shorts so there’s dorky for you. Three, if you like him this much then bloody call him yourself!’

   With that, he storms out of the room, his head still ringing with the music from the club, his jaw clenched in exasperation – and his fingers twitching with a weird urge to text Harry.

   It’s an urge he suppresses though, in favour of falling into bed. If this is what love (or whatever that is) is doing to Zayn, he’s staying well away from anyone who could ever possibly make him feel like that. Especially Harry Styles and his stupid eyes.

   After a little while, his bedroom door creaks open and Zayn shuffles sheepishly inside. Silently, Louis draws back the covers so Zayn can snuggle under them too. They do this sometimes, on cold or sad nights. They don’t cuddle because Louis doesn’t really like cuddling – too confining – but they lie face to face and share each other’s heat and it’s nice, and simple.

   Some time later, Zayn speaks. ‘It’ll probably grow back soon. Right?’

   ‘What were you thinking?’ Louis asks. ‘Like, specifically. Has he ever said he likes skinheads?’

   Zayn splutters a little. ‘No. But he shaved his head last year, remember?’

   Louis does, now. ‘Seriously? He looked like a baby duck. That’s a duckling,’ he adds, to himself. God, he’s tired.

   ‘Yeah, but I knew I wouldn’t look like that. I’m pretty good-looking, you know,’ Zayn replies, only half-joking.

   ‘I know,’ Louis says, yawning. Experimentally, he runs his hand over Zayn’s newly shorn head. He doesn’t like the way it feels. He tries not to picture soft, silky curls sliding through his fingers instead.

   He really tries.

   Zayn shakes him away with a soft noise of protest. ‘Ah, that feels weird. Maybe this was a mistake.’

   ‘Didn’t the noise piercing hurt like hell?’

   Pause, then ‘It’s fake,’ Zayn admits.

   ‘Oh thank Christ,’ Louis says, genuinely relieved. ‘I was not looking forward to the bollocking from your mother.’

   Zayn laughs, his entire face creasing up. It looks oddly like a laugh he could have learnt from Liam.

   ‘Alright,’ Louis says firmly. ‘Nightime now.’ Teasingly, he kisses Zayn’s forehead. ‘Love you, babes.’

   ‘You should go out with Harry,’ Zayn remarks out of the blue, as he closes his eyes. ‘Seriously. The sexual tension is starting to grate.’

   That reminds Louis of what Harry told him. ‘Hey, did you know about this new girlfriend of Niall’s?’

   But there’s no response. Impressively, Zayn’s already asleep.

 

*

The next day is Saturday, so Zayn and Louis are up at eight, the crack of dawn as far as they’re concerned, sorting out the pieces Zayn wants to try to sell at the market today. Eventually they decide on a handful of abstract paintings, a few comic book sketches, and one of the stone works – the rose. Zayn carries it reverently while Louis shoulders the rest of the burden, and the cold is bracing on their bare arms as they walk down to the pier. Louis’s not a morning person but he does love watching the sun hit the sea the way it only does when it rises. It’s like a smile.

   On an average day, Zayn will normally sell five or six paintings and sketches for thirty quid each. On good days, when the tourists have bulging pockets and the locals are in particularly patriotic moods, it can add up to ten or even fifteen. Sometimes they’ll even get the more expensive ones, the oil paintings and intricately inked designs, which cost up to sixty. But Louis’s still surprised when Zayn, confidently enough, puts a small white sign saying _£100_ in front of the stone rose. ‘Are you sure?’

   ‘I cut my hands to pieces on those fucking stones,’ he replies. ‘Plus we should probably start saving up to have the floor re-tiled so I can make more.’

‘You know you can just buy tiles –’

   ‘It’s not the same thing.’

   Of course it’s not, Louis thinks. Where’s the pretension in that?

   He and Zayn sit casually by his masterpieces, all laid out on a white sheet fresh from the dryer, and examine the other starving artists setting up, from Caroline with her array of beautiful twisted silver necklaces, to Lou with her makeover station. It’s peaceful this early, before the throng begins to form. The sun plays kind of prettily on Zayn’s shaved head, and makes the ring in his nose glint. Louis has to admit, he looks good. Why does everything work on him?

   ‘Hi Louis.’

   Louis starts so badly at the sound of the deep, slow voice that he nearly kicks the rose and upends it. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ he exclaims, before he’s even turned around.

   Harry shrugs, while Louis quickly and (hopefully) subtly takes in his appearance. He’s not got a headband in this morning and his hair falls freely over his face in cashmere twists of sun-kissed colour. He’s wearing faded denim jeans and a blue sweater. With a kitten stitched on it. That makes his eyes look turquoise. ‘Niall said you guys sell stuff here.’ He glances at Zayn, and his even, slightly wide-eyed expression doesn’t waver. ‘You look like Justin Timberlake.’

   Zayn gives him the finger, which seems to bother him about as much as everything else does, which is not at all. He just looks back at Louis, who is getting the slightly concerning urge to throw something at him. It’s probably something to do with the fact that, given Louis’s trying to swear him off, it’s a little frustrating that he’s here in front of him looking like a bloody Disney princess with the sun all over him and that bloody Bambi expression. ‘I wanted to ask you something.’

   Louis gets a vague squeezing feeling in his stomach. Zayn’s ears prick up hopefully.

   Harry’s eyebrows crease a little. ‘Umm…I…’ His eye suddenly catches Zayn’s rose. ‘Oh my God, that’s so awesome,’ he says, and he crouches down, reaching right past Louis to touch it, leaving Louis feeling a little left out and a lot disoriented. ‘Oh, and it’s _sharp._ That’s such an awesome juxtaposition with, like, the typical texture of a petal. You think it’s just beautiful and soft and then it’s got a bite underneath.’ Louis’s pretty sure he’s imagining Harry’s brief glance back at him as he says that. ‘Can I have it?’ the boy pleads with Zayn.

   Zayn raises an eyebrow challengingly. ‘You got a hundred quid on you?’

   ‘No, but…’ Another glance at Louis. ‘I can pay you in other ways.’

   Louis’s mouth goes dry.

   ‘Like laundry,’ Harry continues, his eyes as innocent and wide as ever. ‘Or just, like, general cleaning. I’m really good at it. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.’

   Louis’s expecting Zayn to refuse – Lord knows they need money more than they need a housemaid who doesn’t even look strong enough to work a vacuum – but he gives Harry a quick, appraising look, then nods. ‘Alright, deal. You do our housework for a few months and I’ll give you the rose.’

   Harry claps his hands delightedly, and then unexpectedly flings his arms around Zayn’s already precariously-balanced body, tipping both of them over onto the concrete. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbles, quickly pulling Zayn back up. ‘I tend to misjudge my impact. Niall says I think I’m smaller than I am.’

   He seems pretty damn small to Louis, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure he wants to know what Harry was about to ask him. Besides, if he got distracted that easily it can’t have been very important. Right?

   The other two have completely forgotten about him anyway. Zayn’s asking whether Harry studied art, and Harry’s telling him about a photography course he took back in London, and in a blink they’re lost in the world of textures and colours and fucking toaster filters.

   If Liam doesn’t work out, Louis thinks, a little bitterly, Zayn can just fucking marry Harry.

   Which rhymes.

   Right. He needs to go for a walk.

 

*

Niall closes the restaurant that evening, putting a sign on the door that says _Pussy Problems_ that Zayn and Harry make him take down and replace with _Open as usual tomorrow._

   ‘I just figure what’s the point,’ he says, as they sit curled up on the kitchen floor with some spaghetti-based dish Harry cooked up in the kitchen. ‘Fucking Payne’s probably chased away half our customers.’

   ‘It’s a fish and chip shop with a built in cat petting zoo,’ Louis points out. ‘You’re never gonna get kids to stop enjoying that. Especially with Zayn around giving them all premature passions for blood poisoning. Anyway, think of all the exposés on McDonalds. Hasn’t stopped anyone eating there.’

   ‘I suppose,’ Niall replies, but he still looks pissed off. Louis can’t blame him. It was a dirty trick Liam pulled, turning what was supposed to be good publicity into a negative report. He just doesn’t understand why. He seemed like a genuinely nice guy.

   Zayn sighs, flipping his phone shut (he’s still got a Nokia which is probably a good thing: he’d break anything else within a heartbeat). ‘Should I give up on him calling me?’

   ‘You should call him and tell him to go fuck himself,’ Niall retorts.

   Harry puts a soothing hand on his shoulder. ‘He’s out of our lives now, let’s just leave it.’

   At that moment, there’s a knock on the door.

   ‘We’re closed!’ Niall yells. ‘Come back tomorrow!’

   There’s a pause, and the voice that answers is quiet, almost a mumble. ‘It’s Liam. Can I come in?’

   _‘You,’_ Niall calls, sitting up, ‘can –’

   But Zayn’s already falling over himself to open the door.

   Liam smiles at him, then his face falls into sobriety and contrition as he steps inside. ‘Listen, lads, I wanted to apologise for the piece. I honestly thought it would be positive but then like two seconds before the bit our editor told me he wanted an ‘edgier’ spin on it and basically wrote me a script.’ His eyes are liquid and anxious. ‘He said if I didn’t read very word of it he’d fire me. I’m really sorry.’

   Niall huffs grouchily. ‘What’s your editor’s name?’

   ‘Dan Wootton,’ Liam says, then he lowers his voice to add ‘But we all call him…Dan Wanker.’

   Niall chuckles appreciatively, his tough act falling away just like that. ‘Well, I’ll send him a strongly worded e-mail.’ Pause, while Liam shifts from foot to foot uncomfortably. ‘Well sit down, mate, no point you coming all this way for five minutes.’ He indicates his empty plate. ‘Haz, we got any of this left?’

   ‘No,’ Harry replies apologetically. ‘But there’s still dessert. Hold on a sec.’

   As he hurries back into the kitchen Liam seats himself beside Zayn, who’s obviously too busy staring at him to say anything, so Louis does it for him. ‘Why didn’t you call Zayn?’

   ‘What? Oh,’ Liam blushes, turning to Zayn. ‘I thought you were gonna call me.’ His eyes trail over Zayn’s new appearance. ‘I like your hair. Or lack thereof.’ He touches his own self-consciously. ‘I was actually thinking of shaving mine off again.’

   ‘Good grief,’ Louis mutters to Niall. ‘They’re as bad as each other.’

   Harry returns with – Louis should have known – a plate of cupcakes, perfectly piped with pink and white icing, and studded with silver balls. He offers one to Louis first, smirking, and Louis takes it with an exaggerated eye-roll. But he can’t help noticing that, even as Harry’s serving the others, he’s watching for Louis’s reaction.

   Louis bites into it as sexily as he can (there’s not a lot of sexy ways to bite into a cupcake but he’s fairly confident he pulled it off) – and he’s pretty sure his pupils dilate because it’s hands down the best thing he’s ever tasted. It’s light and sweet, almost melting in his mouth, and as he chews he’s startled by a tangy burst of orange.

   ‘These are amazing, Harry,’ Liam says, and Louis notices that he’s shifted closer to Zayn so their hands are almost touching. He looks practically giddy.

   ‘Thanks,’ Harry says, but he’s still watching Louis.

   And Louis’s never one to disappoint an audience so he swallows and declares the cupcakes ‘Edible.’

   Harry’s smile widens, and when he sits down again he crawls between Louis and Niall to do so, slotting his lithe body into the sparse space like a coin. ‘So,’ he says, like he’s picking up a conversation they left off two minutes ago. ‘I was gonna ask you a question, remember?’

   Louis’s heart lurches into his mouth. Liam was murmuring something to Liam but Zayn abruptly puts a finger to the other boy’s lips and they all lean forward, apparently fascinated. That does nothing to his nerves. His face is starting to burn.

   Harry, of course, looks completely unruffled. ‘I was wondering if you were ready to ask me out yet.’

   Louis opens his mouth for a sharp retort – but Zayn gets in first. _‘Yes.’_

   ‘Hey,’ Louis protests, as Harry grins. ‘Could you not step on my lines? Styles, that doesn’t count, you’ll have to ask me again.’

   ‘OK,’ Harry says with a shrug. ‘Are you ready to ask me out yet?’

   ‘Yes,’ Liam cuts in, grinning like an idiot while Zayn smiles proudly.

   Harry doesn’t wait to be asked. ‘Are you ready to –’

   _‘Yes,_ for fuck’s sake,’ Niall laughs. ‘Harry, on behalf of Louis, we are all asking you out.’

   ‘I’m not paying,’ Louis says, because at this point he’s accepted that everything else about this situation is beyond his control.

   ‘Deal,’ Harry says simply and then, bizarrely, he sticks out his hand.

   Louis shakes it.


	5. 'if you wanna go to heaven you should fuck me tonight'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry doesn't mean anything to Louis. That doesn't mean he likes that the feeling's apparently mutual.

‘Finished!’ Zayn declares proudly.

   Louis stares uncertainly at what used to be his second-favourite pair of jeans. ‘I thought you were only going to rip them a little bit.’

   ‘I got kind of carried away,’ Zayn says sheepishly.

   That’s an understatement. There’s more holes than there is material. When Louis wriggles into them, he feels like he might as well still be naked, great gashes exposing the golden skin of his legs. ‘I’m not going out like this.’

   ‘You look great,’ Zayn insists. ‘Just let me fix your hair.’

   ‘Absolutely not,’ Zayn says, deftly dodging Zayn’s hands. ‘I’m not you: I can’t pull off the Eminem look. You leave my hair alone.’

   Zayn rolls his eyes. ‘I was just gonna _style_ it. You can’t have ripped jeans and scruffy hair: it looks lazy.’

   ‘Zayn. The only – the _only_ – reason I am going on this date is to prove to you guys that we wouldn’t work. We’ll probably end up strangling each other by the second course.’

   Zayn shrugs and drifts away.

   As soon as he’s out of the room, Louis hastily grabs some VO5 and cards it through his fringe, so it looks artfully tousled rather than like he just got out of bed, which is pretty much the truth.

   Because he _always_ takes pride in his appearance, thank you very much.

   And his skin is definitely not prickling at the prospect of sitting opposite Harry Edward Styles in a potentially romantic restaurant for two hours looking into those sea-portals he calls eyes.

   Or, if it is, it’s only out of annoyance at the inconvenience. He has things to _do_ today.

   The laundry, for example.

   Zayn comes back with a Rolling Stones T-shirt. Louis’s Rolling Stones T-shirt, which is why he’s more than a little miffed when he pulls it on and realises that Zayn’s torn the sleeves clean off at the shoulder. _‘Mate.’_

   ‘Ssh,’ Zayn says, smiling. ‘You look awesome. Shows off your tattoos. By the way,’ he adds, casually, ‘Niall texted. Told me to tell you that if you hurt Harry, he’ll kill you. And to have fun. And to be gentle with him. Seriously.’

   ‘Great,’ Louis says sourly. ‘So I’m essentially babysitting.’

   Zayn folds his arms. ‘You’re approaching this wrong, Tommo.’

   ‘Says the boy who wants to get a matching tattoo with a man he’s just met.’

   A sparkle instantly glazes over Zayn’s eyes, as pink fades into his cheeks. In between destroying Louis’s clothes, he’s been busily thumbing his phone for the past hour. ‘He wants me to draw one on him, Louis, how sick is that?’

   ‘Him and twenty tiny humans,’ Louis points out. ‘By the way, did you get back to that woman?’

   Zayn wrinkles his nose. ‘Yeah. I’m looking after her kid tomorrow evening. Whatever that means.’

   ‘It means stick on a DVD, draw her a flower, and nick some chocolate from the fridge.’

   ‘What if she, like, chokes on Lego?’

   ‘Zayn, she’s five.’

   Zayn glances at the time on his phone, then gives Louis a prod in the shoulder. ‘Alright, off you go. Your Bambi princess flower child awaits.’

   Louis flips him the bird, but he leaves.

   Bambi princess flower child, he admits to himself, is exactly the right way to describe Harry Styles.

 

*

Harry chose the restaurant, since he’s paying; a cute little Italian one in town. Louis has to begrudgingly accept that it’s a nice restaurant, and that Harry’s obviously made an effort. He’s in the tightest black jeans Louis’s ever seen in his life, not to mention another silky shirt, this one black and practically sheer. His hair is all over his face but in a nice way, somehow, like a veil.

   _Whoa._ It is way too early for Louis to be thinking about marriage.

   It’s way too everything for Louis to be thinking about marriage.

   ‘Hi,’ he says, kind of awkwardly. Outside of a natural setting, surrounded by their friends, he’s not quite sure how to act. Snappy or sweet? Witty or warm?

   Harry gives him a once-over seeming, similarly, almost tentative. Louis swallows hard and tries to remind himself that this is basically just a joke, a point to prove, and probably means as little to Harry as it does (it _does)_ to him.

   ‘Hi,’ Harry replies eventually, and then they let a pretty waitress usher them towards a table for two, and place a napkin on both their laps.

   ‘You’re paying,’ Louis reminds Harry as she leaves, if only to diffuse the tension.

   Harry smiles serenely, as if Louis acting normal calms him a little. ‘What do you want to eat?’

   Louis picks a cheap pizza because he really doesn’t trust that Harry has much money of his own, given that he’s popped up here out of nowhere and shares a flat with Niall, who leaves crumbs between sheets he doesn’t even sleep in, and snores like a rhinoceros with tonsillitis. Harry orders spaghetti and two glasses of wine. Louis slightly resents anything being chosen for him: it makes him feel like a child. Although, to be honest, he wouldn’t know ‘good’ wine if it smacked him in the face.

   ‘So,’ he says slowly, once the waitress leaves again, drawing out the word in a deliberately farcical way. He’s suddenly uncomfortably aware again of how alone they are. He could say anything he wants to, with no Zayn to judge him or Niall to snort or Liam to coo.

   But it’s Harry who says the first concrete thing, interrupting him to do so. ‘You know, Zayn texted Niall to tell me to be nice to you?’ He seems almost hurt. ‘Have I ever not been nice to you?’

   Louis feels himself blush. ‘I didn’t ask him to do that.’ Although it’s sweet, he can’t help thinking. After Zayn’s less-than-sympathetic reaction to Louis’s last break-up, it’s surprising but pleasant to learn that he’s actually invested in his emotional well-being.

   ‘OK,’ Harry says mildly. ‘I just wondered. This isn’t, like, a prank or something, this.’ He gestures vaguely at the single rose in a green vase on the table; the cosy red wallpaper; the oily entrée on other people’s plates.

   ‘So what is it?’ Louis asks, genuinely curious. He wants to know what’s going on in this boy’s head, beside those fathomless but unreadable eyes.

   Harry shrugs, playing with a button of his shirt like he’s considering undoing it. ‘I guess I wanted to try something new. You’re nothing like my…well, the last guy.’

   Louis’s ears prick up. _The last guy._ The reason Harry ran away, maybe? Certainly not a good enough reason to stay. ‘How do you mean?’

   Harry smiles a little dreamily, like he doesn’t know he’s doing it. _Away with the fairies,_ the expression Louis’s mother would use. ‘Small,’ he says, and Louis restrains himself from snapping back with something defensive. He doesn’t think Harry’s saying it to wind him up. He looks pensive, and faded, like he’s lost in a memory. ‘Blue eyes…’ he continues, ‘not rich…’

   Louis bristles, he can’t help it, and when Harry adds _‘sweet,’_ in a murmur, that’s the last straw. ‘I am _not_ sweet.’

   Harry starts a little, jerked out of his reverie. Then he smiles again, but this time it’s teasing, deliberate. ‘Yes you are. You try to hide it behind all your little thorny bits but you can’t help it, it just bursts out.’ His eyes light up with an idea, and then he plucks the flower between them from its vase, twirling it easily between his fingers. ‘You’re like a rose.’

   ‘Fuck off,’ Louis snaps.

   Harry doesn’t. Instead, one eyebrow raised like a challenge, he slots the stem of the rose between his teeth. ‘See?’ he mumbles, looking both ridiculous and strangely charming. ‘You think it protects you, but it doesn’t. You might as well just be sweet.’

   ‘And you’re the resident expert on being who you are,’ Louis hisses. ‘Hiding behind your fucking headscarves and this Disney woodland animal shit, batting your eyes and giving out cupcakes like a fucking…sugar whore –’

   Harry’s mouth opens, the rose falling free, at the same moment as he grabs one of the glasses of wine that have just been set on their table, and throws it into Louis’s face. Then, while Louis splutters and blinks through the crimson, heady haze, he stands up and stalks away, not out of the door, but into the bathroom instead.

   And Louis sort of wishes, with a sinking feeling, that he’d just done that when Louis had told him to fuck off.

   Then Louis wouldn't have hurt him.

 

*

‘Don’t mind me,’ Louis says coldly, striding over to the sink furthest away from the one Harry’s standing in front of, his huge hands braced on its edge. ‘Just gonna wash off the wine that you threw at me _for no reason.’_

   ‘You know why I threw at you.’

   Of course Louis knows. Calling someone a whore is never a good idea, but on a date?

   In his defence, he’s out of practise and none of this was his fucking idea in the first place. And there was a full glass of water probably closer to Harry than the wine. Louis _hates_ being sticky. Partly so he doesn’t have to respond, he turns both taps on full blast, grabs some soap, and dunks his head straight into the sink, ruffling his fingers through his hair a good ten times until he’s just about sure he’s chased all the wine and suds away, at which point he straightens up, eyes shut against any remaining soap, and pointedly holds out his hands for a towel. Or, failing that, Harry’s shirt.

   When he hears an unmistakeable giggle, he’s both irritated and weirdly gratified. ‘What the fuck’s so funny?’

   ‘You,’ a soft voice breathes, and Louis jumps because he’s pretty sure Harry’s much closer than he was two minutes ago.

   Cautiously, braving the chance of chemical burns, he opens his eyes.

   And yep, wow, Harry is _really_ close. Louis can count the flecks of gold in his green eyes; smell his flowery, floury scent; see the way his mouth is slightly open.

   _Fuck it,_ Louis thinks, assumedly about the same time as Harry does, because then they’re kissing like consumed, crazy teenagers, each incomplete without the other, _drowning_ in each other, the water in Louis’s hair running down Harry’s face as they slam together like thunderbolts and waves; like gods warring for ownership of the sky and the sea. Harry’s hands are under the swell of Louis’s arse, lifting him up until he’s sitting on the sink, his legs wide open so Harry can stand between them, Louis’s hands in Harry’s hair, his soft, thick hair, while Harry’s long fingers play across Louis’s waist and back like he’s a fucking piano; like he _belongs_ to him…

   ‘What in the effing hell are you doing?’

   They break apart like a seashell. Louis’s face is flaming, and that’s even before he sees Niall standing in the doorway. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ he snaps, to hide his embarrassment. He hasn’t made out with anyone like that; clothes on, public place and practically _moaning,_ since he was about sixteen.

   ‘Zayn and I came to make sure no one died,’ Niall says, like that’s a reasonable answer. ‘When you came in here Zayn got freaked out you were going to drown each other in the sink so he sent me to check on you.’

   Harry, Louis registers, has stepped back from him, now leaning against the door of a stall licking his lips thoughtfully. So it’s just Louis who’s sitting on a sink like a child, looking ridiculous and probably like he’s just been fucked. Harry just looks mildly flushed, and a little damp around the edges. ‘Have you finished checking on us?’

   ‘Nope,’ Niall says, folding his arms pointedly. ‘You had your chance to have a civilised date on your own and throwing wine everywhere – not to mention dry humping in a bathroom – just cost you that privilege. C’mon, I’m taking you both back to the shop where you can be properly supervised.’

   ‘We haven’t eaten yet,’ Louis protests, because that seems like the most important issue right now: he’s starving.

   ‘I had a word with the waitress; asked her to wrap it up for you. Believe it or not, she wasn’t exactly desperate for you to stay.’ He smiles a little. ‘Asked for my autograph though; saw my show.’ The smile fades. ‘Now. Not telling you again. Out.’

   Harry and Louis trail Zayn and Niall back in disgraced silence. Zayn keeps looking back to smirk at them and when Louis looks at Harry, meaning to shoot him a glare, he’s staring at the ground with his hands shoved in his pockets.

   At one point he looks up to ask Niall who’s running the restaurant.

   ‘Selena,’ Niall states simply.

   Louis’s ears perk up. Maybe he’ll finally get to meet the infamous woman who’s gained access, not only to Niall’s lips, but apparently his trust. Niall wouldn’t leave the restaurant to just anyone. If anyone at all. She must be pretty special.

   Liam, predictably, is awaiting their arrival at a table by himself, and when he sees Zayn his eyes light up like firecrackers and he actually waves – although he doesn’t quite manage to get to him before the children. Selena turns out to be a stunning, dark-eyed girl with the whitest teeth in the world who Louis quizzes for a couple of minutes but doesn’t get anything out of. She just smiles at him and gives monosyllabic answers that don’t really reveal anything, and when evening falls and Niall requests that everyone shift off home she leaves too, with only a quick peck on his cheek that makes him go as red as a cherry.

   The five boys all hang back, Louis and Harry avoiding each other’s eyes, Zayn and Liam still practically glued together. Niall breaks out a few bottles of beer and they all get inadvisably drunk and giggly while Louis teases Niall about his girlfriend, if only so he won’t go on about what he saw in the bathroom. ‘Hope she’s old enough for you, mate!’

   ‘She’s twenty, you dick, she’s in her last year of uni. You’re one to talk –’

   ‘So how did you land a lovely creature like her?’

   ‘Because I’m a gentlemen, which is more than I can say for –’

   ‘When did you know it was _true love?’_

   ‘Tomlinson, I’m warning you…’

   And then a little more time passes and a little more weak alcohol flows and a few more inhibitions disintegrate – and then somehow they’re playing Gay Chicken which seems stupid since at least three out of five of them are actually gay but they all play along anyway and it’s not so hard for Louis to duck away from Zayn and Harry in disgust, because he and Zayn have an agreement to never kiss after that one time they went too far shotgunning at uni and were awkward around each other afterwards for a week, and the idea of giving Harry a chaste peck on the lips when what he wants, now more than ever with ethanol in his veins and the sour fizzing taste of cheap beer on his tongue, is to force his mouth open with his tongue and just _claim_ him, take him until he’s choking on air, is fucking terrifying.

   Niall pulls away before they’re even nose to nose, which is predictable. It’s Liam who’s the surprise, losing every round within seconds. Louis’s just starting to worry if he’s a little weirded out by queerness – and then that thought goes away because when it’s his and Zayn’s turn he doesn’t even approach slowly, he just jumps on top of him and crashes their mouths together and then they’re full on rolling around together with their tongues everywhere, and at first it’s funny but then the mood sort of goes flat, like the warming beer, and it’s just Louis, Harry and Niall watching Liam and Zayn grinding up on each other, so Niall announces that the party’s over and he’s going home to bed and Zayn and Liam stumble out of the door, still licking into each other’s mouths, without so much as a goodnight.

   ‘I’ll stay and clear up,’ Harry offers.

   ‘I’ll stay too,’ Louis says, not necessarily because he wants to finish what they started (although God, he does, his head is reeling and his mouth is dry and his fucking fingertips are tingling), mostly because he is not going back to his flat until there’s a good chance Zayn and Liam have fallen asleep and are not fucking each other, most likely loud enough to wake the dead.

   Niall gives them a wary look, but he leaves.

   Harry sits up slightly from where he’s leaning back on his elbows. And maybe he was only going to reach forward to start collecting the empty bottles, whatever, but Louis’s plastered and twitching and still horny and he holds out his arms and within seconds Harry’s inside them, straddling Louis’s legs, sliding his hands up his shirt, mumbling _Fuck, you’re so small,_ and somehow Louis doesn’t hate hearing it this time, it makes him feel warm and safe inside, Harry’s big clumsy body enveloping him.

   They never do get around to clearing up.

 

*

The instant Louis opens his eyes in the morning, he knows he’s fucked up. Fucked. In every literal, metaphorical and conceptual way.

   He’s lying in a strange bed, staring up at plastic stars on the ceiling, and beside him is the still-sleeping body of Harry Edward Styles, duvet rucked up to his naked waist, his arms and torso a startling wash of ink. Louis’s sight is too blurry to make any of them out, and nor does he want to. He needs to get out of here. Now.

   Harry must be a light sleeper because as soon as Louis sits up, his eyes open, and he smiles sleepily. A flash of irritation overtakes Louis: why does he _always_ fucking look like everything’s OK; like a fucking earthquake could happen and those oceans in his eyes would stay just as calm and clear and clean? Who the hell is he anyway? ‘Oh God,’ he groans, because he doesn’t know what else to do. ‘This was _not_ supposed to happen.’

   ‘Nothing’s _supposed_ to happen,’ Harry says, sitting up too and squinting a little in the sunlight pouring from his open window. ‘Haven’t you heard of chaos theory? Everything changes on a dime. Predictions are pointless. Stuff just happens.’

   _Why did you have to happen to me?_

   Louis throws the covers off – and he’s completely naked, fucking brilliant – and grabs the nearest pair of jeans, hoping they’re his. As he shoves them on he remembers the rips, and groans again. Fuck Zayn and his shredder complex and his abandonment of his best friend for someone he barely _knows._ He’ll trail Louis to a restaurant to save him from sink-death, but he swans off with a pretty face leaving him inebriated, at the mercy of a boy with what turned out to be the dirtiest mouth Louis’s ever had on his –

   _Nope._

   ‘Lou,’ Harry says reproachfully, propping himself up on an elbow. ‘You’re being neurotic.’

   ‘Harry,’ Louis replies, through gritted teeth. ‘You like _boybands._ This is not happening.’

   ‘Who said it had to happen?’ Harry asks innocently. ‘I’m not Zayn, we’re not gonna get married just cos you took my virginity.’

   ‘Oh _fuck,’_ Louis whispers. The world is caving in. But despite the roaring in his ears and the pain in his head, he remembers his first time, how shit it was, how the guy just left afterwards, and it actually helps some. It calms him down, forces him to confront the situation, because if he made Harry – anyone, but somehow especially Harry – feel like that, he’d never forgive himself. He swings his legs back onto the bed and leans on a pillow, forcing himself to be still, to be here. ‘Was it…good, for you?’

   Harry splutters.

   ‘I’m serious,’ Louis says tightly. He can definitely remember it being good for him – _really_ fucking good in fact, fantasy-level good, Harry so pliant and eager, their bodies fitting around each other like a lock - but he still has to know that Harry’s OK, that Louis didn’t hurt him.

   The smiles fades from Harry’s face, and he leans over to give him a quick, reassuring kiss on the corner of his mouth. ‘It was awesome. Honestly.’

   And that helps, slows Louis’s panicked heartrate a little, makes a few of the shattered pieces of his life regenerate. ‘OK.’

   ‘Yes,’ Harry says firmly, ‘it’s OK.’ He prods Louis’s side. ‘Now up you get so I can make breakfast.’

   Louis does, and he stumbles through the rest of the morning with Harry, who makes him bacon and eggs and freshly squeezed orange juice (again, he’s like a cartoon, like a fairy tale, humming over the sizzle of the pan, nudging his foot gently against the kittens that wind around his ankles, pushing his hair back with an Alice band to keep it out of his eyes) and when Niall comes in he says that Louis slept on the couch to avoid Zayn and Liam (Niall just yawns and accepts it), and when Louis’s eaten and showered and eaten some more, Harry nudges him out of the door and doesn’t even kiss him goodbye.

   Which is a good thing, Louis thinks. He gets it. He gets that this can’t happen.

   Still, he says it out loud for good measure. ‘We’re not doing this again.’

   Harry gives him a blank look. ‘Doing what?’ Then he grins, his eyes glinting. ‘Bye, Lou.’

   And just like that, he shuts the door.

   As if it really was nothing to him.

   As if Louis were nothing too.


	6. under the covers, we're stuck like two pieces of velcro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Niall's a solipsistic moron. Zayn's uncertain. Liam's enchanted. Harry's hungry. And Louis doesn't know what he wants.

‘Post-modernist comedy,’ Niall reads out from his iPhone, a wry grin cutting into his face. ‘Or as I like to call it, the laziest form of ‘art’ since cave drawings. And indeed, what better analogy do we have? Solipsistic morons pointing at objects and saying ‘those exist, and my generic recreation of them is of the utmost importance to society’. The only difference is, in thousands of years to come, Niall Horan will not have found his way into the archives of history. Thank Christ.’

   The audience are in stitches. Maybe it’s the posh English accent he’s putting on, or the very fact of his reading out such a snobbishly awful review of his set, but Louis can very well see why his act has become so popular, even in terms of this tiny town. He’s spoken to a couple of people who have come all the way up here from London, on the advice of their cousins, specifically to see him. From the mirthful tears rolling down their cheeks, he’s sure it was worth it.

   ‘Thank you, ladies and gents and whoever else you are, have a great night!’

   The applause is deafening, but as always Niall doesn’t stick around to see it, appearing almost instantly beside Louis, Harry, Zayn and Liam. ‘Alright, let’s get out of here. Last time I let them buy me drinks I nearly got fucking alcohol poisoning.’

   Domesticity seems to have seeped irreparably into their once wild, fun-loving friend, because as soon as they’re out of the bar he checks his phone and bids the rest of them goodnight to go and pick Selena up from the library. The other four have still barely met her, and even then only when she steps into cover a shift at the fish and chip shop. The only explanation Niall will give is that ‘she’s busy, and I don’t want you bloody scaring her away anyway’.

   And apparently, couple-ness is catching. Liam, obviously a little tipsy, starts tugging at Zayn’s hand and then, when that doesn’t work so well, kissing his neck, which if anything does the job a little too well. Zayn doesn’t even remember to say goodbye before they wander off together, arms around each other’s waists, his head on Liam’s shoulder.

   ‘Well,’ Harry says innocently, as Louis sighs in exasperation, ‘what do you want to do now?’

   Louis gives him a sharp look. ‘What’ indeed. It’s been two days since they slept together but it’s all Louis’s been able to think about. He’s been so, so careful to never be alone with Harry, especially not drunk, because he knows his limits and Harry pushes him past the breaking point of every single one of them – but here they are, alone, three drinks gone, and Harry’s wearing a blue headscarf that tears his eyes into every colour on the green-blue-grey spectrum. It’s like looking into a kaleidoscope.

   ‘Niall’s gonna bring Selena back to our place,’ Harry says eventually, shuffling the tip of his toe against the ground, almost sheepish. ‘I, umm, don’t really want to disturb him. Plus I’m hungry,’ he adds, a little more alluringly.

   It makes Louis grin. At least Harry isn’t pretending to want his company for anything more than a meal. ‘OK, sure. I guess I still owe you a dinner.’

   So they walk back to Louis and Zayn’s flat, an inch between their bodies, and Harry keeps his head tilted at the sky to the point where he trips over a crack in the pavement and Louis has to steady him so he doesn’t smash face-first to the ground. ‘Look where you’re going, you twat,’ he admonishes, letting go of Harry’s arm as soon as he’s sure he isn’t going to topple.

   ‘I’m just trying to count the stars,’ Harry says, pouting (lipgloss again, Louis hates to admit it but it’s kind of growing on him). ‘There’s so many here. Back home –’

   Abruptly, he stops.

   ‘Back home?’ Louis prompts, curious despite himself. Harry never talks about his past. He never talks about anything concrete, really, just jabbers on about cats and stars and colours so you think you know him, you feel like you’ve got a hold on him, and then you clench your fist and it slips through your fingers like smoke.

   Not that Louis’s tried it.

   ‘Back home,’ Harry says flatly. Then he tips his head back again. ‘Though I guess this is home now. Right?’

   Why does it sound like he needs Louis’s affirmation? Or even permission. ‘Home is where you decide it is,’ he replies, non-committal. ‘Does it feel like home?’ He resists the urge to say _do we?_

   ‘Yes,’ Harry says decidedly, and the stupid fucker closes his eyes, still walking.

   ‘Jesus,’ Louis mutters to himself, and then he links his arm through Harry’s. Just because he has the strong feeling that if no one holds onto him, he’ll probably get hit by a car.

   _Was that the problem?_ he wonders. _Did he not have anybody holding onto him?_

   As he opens the door to his flat he realises that Harry’s never been here before, so he gives him the cursory tour after he’s set water boiling on the stove and chucked in some oil and salt. He shows him the carnage that used to be the kitchen floor, the sitting room that smells like weed and chips, Zayn’s bedroom with its chaos of paints and pencils and scissors, and his own room, the smaller of the two but the one with a skylight which Harry obviously falls in love with at first sight because he just flops onto the bed on his back and stares up through it, face shining with delight. ‘I changed my mind. I want this to be home.’

   ‘Sorry,’ Louis mumbles, shifting awkwardly. ‘It’s taken.’

   Harry pouts again and doesn’t move, so Louis leaves him there and goes back to the kitchen to cook a few handfuls of pasta and half a jar of tomato sauce. It’s not much, nothing really, and he doesn’t have any parsley or basil or any of the things Harry would probably put in pasta to make it taste like something more than water and cheap sauce, but he brings the two bowls into his bedroom on a tray and Harry sits up to take his and smiles massively when he takes his first bite. ‘Fuck me. I’ve been living on chips and spinach for weeks. Thank you.’

   He sort of lost Louis at _fuck me._

   He seems to realise that, because he looks up at him from under his eyelashes, swallowing hard, and says ‘You can, if you want.’

   Mouth dry, Louis plays dumb. ‘Can what?’

   Harry licks his lips, and then he leans over and kisses Louis on the cheek.

   Louis leans back, unwilling to get sucked into this boy again. However much he might want to. ‘I thought you said you were hungry.’

   ‘Pasta’s not the only thing I can eat.’

   ‘OK,’ Louis says. He doesn’t know whether he’s turned on or freaked out. Probably both. ‘That was probably the worst pick-up line in the world.’

   ‘Well, it’s the only one you’re getting,’ Harry says, smiling. ‘So?’

   Louis rubs the back of his neck. He feels hot, and twisted inside. ‘Harry, I said it couldn’t happen again.’

   ‘There’s no ‘it’, Lou. I’m just…hungry.’ He shrugs, toying with the pasta in his bowl. ‘You’re the only halfway fit guy around here.’ Mischief briefly flashes in his eyes. ‘Except Zayn but, you know, Liam got there first.’

   ‘Fuck off,’ Louis grins. He’s relaxing now, because Harry’s making sense. They’re just hungry. And Harry’s certainly the most beautiful boy he’s ever seen around here.

   Seen anywhere, really.

   The fact that he’s hungry for Louis in itself is kind of awesome.

   Slowly, deliberately, Louis takes Harry’s pasta from him and sets it on the tray next to his, and then puts the tray on the floor.

   Harry smiles, hugely, and it’s way too sweet to be sexy, almost kills the mood – but then he pulls himself up on his hands and knees and crawls over to Louis, placing his hands and legs either side of his prone body and dipping his hips into him and that, _that_ is sexy.

   They’re drunk, Louis reminds himself as Harry kisses him, prising his mouth open with his tongue and licking into him with tiny soft moans that make Louis’s cock swell in his trousers before he’s even touched him. He brings his hands up to cup Harry’s jaw, tracing the razor blade edge with his thumbs in awe. How can he be so soft and so sculpted at the same time? It’s not fair, seriously. Louis’s just soft. Self-consciously, he sucks in his stomach as Harry pulls first his own and then Louis’s T-shirt off over their heads, a half-second break before he’s kissing him again, this time ducking to suck at his neck.

   ‘Is this actually the second time you’ve had sex?’ Louis asks, because he can’t help but be sarky even when his nerves feel like sparklers burning love notes into the dark.

   He feels Harry’s smile against his skin. ‘Am I that good?’

   ‘No,’ Louis bites back. ‘I just can’t believe it’s not your first.’

   ‘Really,’ Harry says, unperturbed. ‘You don’t remember this?’

   And then he unbuckles Louis’s belt, pulls down his jeans and briefs, and wraps his mouth around Louis’s dick, sinking down on it so deep that Louis has to throw his arm back to grip his headboard to stop himself crying out, and even then he can’t stop an _‘Oh motherfucking Jesus.’_

   Harry hums smugly and Louis doesn’t even care, doesn’t even buck his hips to shut him up, just wants him to stay exactly where he is forever and ever and ever.

   He thinks the same thing when Harry’s riding him, flushed and sweaty, hair curling every which way, gasping and glassy-eyed and gone.

   And the same thing again when they’ve both come and Harry’s just sitting there, slumped, hands braced on Louis’s chest as his breath shudders out of him in tatters, holding Louis inside him like it’s keeping him alive.

   But he doesn’t allow himself to think it when they’ve cleaned themselves up and they’re lying in bed, inches apart once more, and Harry falls asleep first, rolls over and snuggles into him, damp-skinned and dark eyelashes fluttering, mumbling nonsense that Louis listens to for as long as he can manage before keeping his own eyes open becomes impossible.

   No, he definitely doesn’t think it then.

 

*

Louis’s literally starving hungry when he wakes up, so much so that he reaches for the pasta beside his bed – but it’s stone-cold, worse luck.

   It’s only then he notices that Harry is gone.

   Which makes sense, he supposes. It’s late, nearly eleven, so Zayn could be back any minute and Harry probably woke up hours ago because he seems like the early riser type and that’s fine, everything’s fine, waking up alone is fine.

   He stumbles into the kitchen still half-asleep, and is gratified to find a pot of coffee freshly made, along with a note.

   _Not a thing :) see you around x_

   Louis drinks a couple of cups while he makes himself bacon and eggs and lets himself come down from the night before, which is still shaking through his legs. He can’t help feeling bad that he didn’t end up feeding Harry properly last night. The kid’s so skinny, not unhealthily so but still. It’s bad enough having Zayn’s delicately emaciated self floating around, but at least Louis knows he eats like a horse. He makes a note in his phone, reminding him that one of these days he’ll have an actual dinner with Harry Styles.

   Waiting for his breakfast to fry, he goes to use the bathroom, looks in the mirror, and nearly has a heart attack.

   His neck and shoulders are a fucking mess of purple marks. That boy can _bite._ Luckily, Louis’s used to waking up with a couple of blemishes of this nature, and he keeps green corrector and concealer in his cigarette/dope drawer by his bed. He’s just finished evening out the golden tone when he hears the door, and Zayn’s voice call out ‘I’m going to bed!’

   ‘It’s eleven in the morning!’ he calls back.

   ‘What do you think I’ve been doing all night?’

   ‘There’s Deep Heat in the medicine cabinet!’

   ‘Good night!’

   With Zayn’s bedroom door closed and him apparently none the wiser as to last night’s guest, Louis looks in the mirror a little longer. He can’t help examining his reflection; looking for the things Harry must see in him. But all he sees is his stomach, his thighs, his cheekbones that make him look unbearably feminine. He talks a big game, pretends to believe it, but he doesn’t like the way he looks.

   And yet, Harry must because Louis is approximately 100% sure that he’s not into him for personality. They interact like nails on a chalkboard. But fuck, are they good at sex. It’s crazy.

   Louis kind of wants to call him. It’s nothing personal, he’s just really bad at one night stands, a fact he learnt in uni when he slept with someone in freshers week and stalked him for three days afterwards. He’s chilled out since then but he still can’t quite handle complete emotional disconnection.

   Besides, he knows Harry. They’re friends. He knows his floral shirts and his headbands and his weird little tangents within conversation. Surely that’s a good enough reason to call him? Even just to make sure he got home safe.

   He picks up his phone and looks at it for a minute, eventually succeeding in talking himself down to a text. **_Hey. You get home alright?_**

   Harry doesn’t reply for a while. Louis tries not to worry as he eats his breakfast and drinks another cup of coffee. He remembers last night, holding his arm to stop him wandering out into the road, and feels a little sick. Is the dopey act something he puts on for other people’s benefit, or is he really that careless with himself? He’s not sure which concept is the more disconcerting.

   **_Yeah, I’m fine._**

   That seems like too blunt an ending to this conversation, so Louis clicks his heels for a couple of minutes and then replies **_Thanks for the coffee._**

   This time the answer is immediate. **_Not a thing :p_**

   Now, reluctantly, Louis puts down the phone. Clearly Harry’s not that interested in talking right now. At least he’s alive.

   Zayn doesn’t wake up until two in the afternoon. Louis goes for a run, something he only does when he feels guilty which this time, he tells himself, is because of his fry-up. The day started out sunny but it begins to rain about halfway through, which is refreshing until the rain becomes a downpour and he staggers home from the pier looking like a drowned rat. He showers, quick and hard, then redoes his make-up and plays around with his hair for a while, eventually settling on a slight quiff but nothing too extravagant. It’s not like he has anyone to impress.

   When Zayn does eventually drift into his room while he’s reading a book, sit down on his bed and start carefully pulling threads out of his duvet cover looking lost and far away, Louis quickly stills his wrists before he can unravel the whole thing, which has already happened far too many times to justify the expense of replacing it. ‘What’s up?’

   Zayn exhales heavily. ‘Just…I miss him. Already. I couldn’t sleep.’

   ‘Did something happen?’

   ‘No. I just left. He said I could stay but I thought I’d need some space. I mostly do after I’ve spent the night with someone. But…’ He bites his lip briefly, blushing. ‘All I want is to be back with him.’

   Louis whistles. Jesus. Suddenly, he feels better about his own growing attachment to Harry. ‘Well, so go back to him.’

   Emphatically, Zayn shakes his head. ‘I don’t want to cling. What if he just likes fucking me? He’s lovely, but…sometimes I think he’s too nice. Like he might be faking it. You know?’

   ‘Zayn, he looks at you like the masses looked at Princess Diana.’

   Zayn shakes his head, twisting out of Louis’s grip to pull another thread. It reminds Louis of when they were in uni, and Zayn used to yank the hairs out of his own head when he was stressed or unhappy, to the point that he gave himself a bald patch. It makes Louis glad that Zayn shaved his head. ‘I just don’t want to fuck this up,’ he says quietly. ‘I mean, you know how much I liked him before, but…that was, like, abstract, right? Now I know him, sort of, and Louis, he’s like the best person in the world. There’s nothing wrong with him. Nothing.’

   ‘Is that bad?’

   ‘Yes. No. Christ, I don’t know. I mean, it’s great for him. Must be amazing to have all the right reactions to all the right emotions at all the right times. But I don’t. I break things.’ Helplessly he indicates the shabby duvet, even as he keeps unwinding it. ‘I’m, like…chaotic neutral. He’s just good.’

   Gently, Louis kisses his forehead. ‘Zayn. Shut up. He’s enchanted. If it was medically feasible, he’d have your babies. And you know what? He’s got good taste.’

   Reluctantly, Zayn smiles.

   Taking advantage, Louis hastily hustles him out of the bedroom before he can completely destroy the duvet cover.

 

*

The next day is Saturday, so as usual, Louis and Zayn pack up Zayn’s artwork in plastic (he’s completed another stone picture, this one of Liam) and head down to the pier. The rain is still going strong, so they bring a sheet of tarpaulin although the wind nearly knocks Louis backwards with it into the sea.

   It’s not a profitable day. The tourists all hurry past in raincoats and umbrellas, not so much as glancing at their surroundings. Zayn insists on giving his paintings the bulk of the shelter, meaning that by noon they’re soaked to the skin and Louis is starting to question whether this friendship could be called beneficial to his wellbeing if he catches pneumonia. Then Zayn buys them both coffee and doughnuts from the nearby café and he cheers up a little.

   They didn’t go to the fish house yesterday, although they normally would on a Friday. Zayn was still a bit upset, and Louis didn’t feel like tiptoeing around Harry. It was weird enough not telling Zayn. They had a quiet night in, smoking and eating crisps, and when Zayn fell asleep on the sofa Louis went to work, and it was a relatively quiet night. He’s only had three hours’ sleep and he looks like shit, but he’s so cold and the doughnuts are so good that he’s past caring.

He’s not particularly surprised when he looks up to see Liam standing under an umbrella, staring at their soaking bodies and looking gravely concerned. ‘Here,’ he says, in lieu of greeting, thrusting his umbrella at Zayn.

   Zayn looks up too, and starts. ‘Oh, I…didn’t know you were coming.’

   ‘I have a reason,’ Liam says quickly, rain dripping down his pink face. ‘I mean, not just wanting to see you. I mean, I wanted to see you, but there’s something else as well. I had this idea yesterday, I don’t know if you’d be interested, but I’d really love to do a feature on your art. You know, your drawings, your pieces, your tattoos…just, like, you in general. It would be good publicity for you, honestly. So, if it’s OK…’

   ‘Do I get paid?’ Zayn asks, eyes glinting.

   ‘Umm…’ Liam says, forehead creasing. ‘In experience?’

   ‘Right,’ Zayn says.

   Liam looks crestfallen. ‘I’ll…buy you dinner?’

   Zayn smiles. Then he stands up, pulls Liam under the umbrella and kisses him, brief and sweet. When he pulls back, Liam’s eyes have actually glazed over. ‘Deal.’

   ‘Perfect,’ Liam says breathlessly, smiling straight back.

   Louis can’t stop himself from snorting loudly. What was that about faking it?

   Liam offers to take over from Louis co-manning the stall, so Louis drifts down to the comic book store to flick wistfully through first editions.

   Sometimes he thinks a sugar daddy might be nice. When he was at uni he used to have a half-thing with the maths professor (it wasn’t too bad: they didn’t directly teach him), and he’d give him money sometimes. It was a little weird, but Louis didn’t really care until he was twenty and started to want something more than sex and a bit of extra money once a week.

   Then he met Thomas, who broke up with him last month, and he’s only just starting to realise that he never really liked him that much. He was brittle and possessive and kind of a dick in the end, but he was the first proper boyfriend Louis had had and it was nice, that security of having someone to be with, a buffer against creeps and loneliness.

   But he is _not_ looking for that in Harry. Because that would be unbelievably stupid. He doesn’t even like Harry that much either. He’s just there and they’re both hungry and he’s got a nice mouth.

   And yeah, he’s sweet, and gentle, and funny. But he’s also nineteen, a pain in the arse, and still a complete stranger. Louis’s in no danger of getting in too deep on this, he’s sure of it. They’re not together. They’re not even a thing.

   It’s perfect.

   Or it would be if Louis wasn’t flat fucking broke.

 

*

Still, he’s slightly less broke by three in the morning. Horny old men tip well if he jacks off a cocktail shaker in their faces, and tonight he doesn’t hold back, bopping along to the music behind the bar, batting his eyelashes every which way, bantering with the other boys. Six hour shift and he makes a couple hundred quid from the customers.

   And somehow that gratification is nothing compared to the happy pang that jolts through his chest when he walks out of the club to find Harry chatting beguilingly to a bouncer.

   He should be surprised, he knows. But he’s not. He’s kind of getting used to Harry showing up wherever he is. ‘Hey, Styles.’

   ‘Hi,’ Harry says, then he kisses the bouncer’s cheek, says ‘Goodnight Robbie,’ and walks towards Louis. For a second Louis thinks he’s going to kiss him too, properly, but at the last minute he ducks his head and walks past him, looking back with a cheeky smile. ‘Coming or what?’

   ‘So what brings you here tonight?’ Louis asks sweetly as he half-runs to catch up (Harry’s legs are nearly twice the size of his).

   ‘I was in the area,’ Harry says casually, but he’s smiling. He’s swinging his hand quite obviously, bumping against Louis’s hip every now and then, and Louis shoves his own hands in his pockets to restrain himself from taking it. ‘How was the shift?’

   ‘Lucrative.’

   ‘Cool. So I should be expecting flowers any day now?’

   Louis nudges him playfully. ‘Shut up. So how was your day?’

   He hops up onto a low brick wall by the pavement, stretching out his arms to balance on his pigeon toes as he begins to walk across it. Louis watches, weirdly fascinated. ‘Alright. Cats and I had the flat to ourselves, I watched a couple of movies, did my online Tescos shop. Adult life is exciting, isn’t it?’

   ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Louis said. ‘Haven’t you guessed? I’m secretly Peter Pan.’

   Harry laughs delightedly. ‘Does that mean you can make me fly?’

   ‘Sorry mate, you need a fairy for that.’

   He frowns mock-thoughtfully. ‘But don’t you also qualify as –’

   ‘Shut _up.’_ Louis grabs his arm and pulls him off the wall, which wouldn’t have been that weird except that Harry lands clumsily on his Bambi legs and falls against him. For a moment they freeze, noses brushing, Harry’s fringe falling across Louis’s forehead. He smells like vanilla, and hundreds and thousands. ‘I’m guessing you’ve been baking?’ Louis asks, his stupid attempt to break the moment before he does something he’ll regret. He shouldn’t have had those shots while they were closing up the bar.

   But Harry doesn’t move away. He just breathes out, hot and sweet. Louis’s own mouth opens unconsciously, almost a gasp. ‘Yeah, I made brownies. You can have some tomorrow, but I figure right now I should just take you home. Alright?’

‘Alright,’ Louis mumbles, and they step back from each other and keep walking.

   Louis thinks he might invite Harry to stay the night, even though he’s probably too tired to fuck tonight: his legs are heavy and aching, and so is his head. But it might be nice to just sleep beside him. He feels calm with Harry, calmer than he usually does with anyone.

   ‘Got any plans on Sunday?’ he asks, carefully cool. ‘Just, I feel like we haven’t actually eaten dinner together yet.’

   Harry smiles angelically. ‘Well, maybe it wasn’t meant to be.’

   ‘Is that a no.’

   His eyebrows crease. ‘Just…we can’t really fuck and date at the same time. That’s sort of…something. Isn’t it?’

   ‘I guess,’ Louis says, expertly masking his disappointment. Besides, he can’t help thinking, what does Harry call this? Picking him up from work? Taking him home? That’s not nothing.

   Except maybe it is. Maybe Harry’s just this kind of person.

   Who is Louis kidding? Of course Harry’s just this kind of person.

   Harry nudges his hip against Louis’s gently. ‘Sorry.’

   ‘No problem.’ Louis smiles stickily, forcing himself to meet Harry’s wide, emerald eyes. ‘I mean, sure. Whatever you want. I mean, it’s what I want too. Not…you know. Not something.’

   ‘Cool,’ Harry says mildly. ‘Still OK if I come back with you?’

   ‘Sure,’ Louis replies.

   And he is sure, and he honestly feels perfectly fine considering, up until they’re in the house, Harry’s hands already on his waist, mouth on his neck, and he glances into the door of the sitting room – and sees Liam and Zayn, wrapped up in a blanket and each other, snoozing softly intertwined and happy and so cute it makes his eyes water.

   And suddenly the fact of his own loneliness and emptiness and complete lack of that kind of love overwhelms him, and he knows that if he lets Harry stay he’ll drown him too, and it will be pathetic and embarrassing and disgusting. So he takes Harry’s hands off of his body, turns to him and says ‘I’m tired, Haz. Maybe you should go.’

   Harry’s eyes flicker. For slightly more than a second, the corners of his mouth turn down. Then he quietly says ‘See you tomorrow, then,’ and slips back out of the front door.

For a moment Louis just stands still, shaken and shocked at the intensity of his own sadness. Where did that come from? He’s fine being alone, better off with no one to look after anyway, if how bad he is at looking after Zayn is anything to go by. He can barely take care of himself, let alone someone else, let alone someone like Harry. He’s just tired and a bit drunk and the whole week is hitting him at once.

   Which is the only reason a few tears slip from his eyes before he falls headfirst into a deep, drained sleep.


End file.
